


Leatherwing

by BabyCharmander



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: (BRIEFLY!! they're never dwelled upon but they're there), Angst, Broken Bones, Friendship, Gen, Minor Violence, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, in which Héctor has an alebrije and everything is Fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander
Summary: Not everyone in the Land of the Dead has a spirit guide; they only appear to those who truly need guidance, and who are willing to listen to that guidance once they understand.And many years ago, there was a time when Héctor met those qualifications.





	1. Tap

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya folks! Here's a fic I've had sitting around half-finished for a while and finally decided to start posting. No worries, my other longfic is still being worked on! I just figured I'd start posting this other fic while I'm working on it. This'll be a short one--just six chapters. 
> 
> Thanks to Jaywings and Tomatosoupful for beta-reading this for me! You dudes rock.
> 
> Hope you folks enjoy!

* * *

 

_“Hi,” said the little leatherwing bat,_

_“I’ll tell to you the reason that_

_The reason that I fly by night_

_Is because I lost my heart’s delight.”_

\- Peter Paul and Mary, “Leatherwing Bat”

 

* * *

 

 

It was too quiet in the apartment.

Normally when things felt too quiet, Héctor would fill the void with music—humming, tapping, or strumming his guitar if it was close by. But now he felt like doing none of those things. He _couldn’t_ do any of those things.

He lay on his back on the couch and stared at the ceiling, as he had been doing for over a day now, trying to will himself to disappear _._

Just like his parents had.

After all, what was the point in anything else? They were gone. He’d lost them, just like he had when he was young. Except this time he didn’t have anyone to pull him out of the numb blankness he’d fallen into—he had no one to comfort him, to tell him it would be all right, to distract him from the agony swallowing him whole. They were gone too, on the other side of an impassable gulf—at least, impassable to him, and… to _them_.

He might have cried at the thought if he hadn’t already. And he _had_ cried—he’d cried and screamed and howled until the landlord barged into the apartment to find out what was happening. Héctor had probably attacked him in his hysteria, but he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember much else about what had happened, other than that the landlord was gone now and he’d screamed himself hoarse.

Would he get kicked out? Possibly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He couldn’t do anything.

He was just going to lie here until he disappeared.

_Tap._

The noise cut through his numbness. It came from the window, but he didn’t care to look up to see what it was.

_Tap._

Again, there it was. The thought crossed his mind that someone might be tapping on the window, but he dismissed it. He was at least eight floors up in this stupidly tall building. Anyway, it didn’t matter.

_Tap._

How long had that been going on? Was he only just now noticing?

_Tap, tap, tap._

The sound continued, picking up in pace until Héctor’s eye twitched, and he sat up abruptly, wincing at the creaking in his bones. Strangely, there was nothing there—all he could see outside were the mockingly bright colors of the Land of the Dead. What right did this place—this place where people just _disappeared_ without warning—have to look so bright and cheerful and—?!

_It wasn’t without warning; you just didn’t want to see the signs, and they didn’t want to tell you._

They should have told him earlier, they should have given him time to _prepare_ , he would have spent more time with them if he’d known—it wasn’t _fair_ , how could they _do_ this to him, it wasn’t _fair_ —

A sharp pain snapped him out of his thoughts, and he realized he’d been clutching at his wrist until the bones were straining under the pressure. Forcibly he let go, grabbing a nearby blanket instead and pulling on it, tugging and yanking until it tore. With a sick twist in his gut he remembered that the blanket was one of the ones his mother had made, and he clutched it, pressing it against his face with a snarl.

For some time he just sat there, holding the blanket close to him and shaking.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap tap tap tap tap—_

Héctor tossed the blanket aside, grabbed a nearby glass, and threw it. It shattered just below the far window, days-old water dripping down the wall and around the shards of glass. And once again, there was nothing at the window.

_I’m losing my mind_ , he thought, lowering his head into his hands and grasping at his hair. His rib cage heaved.

When he looked back up again, his eyes fell on the pile of broken glass. _I can’t leave it there,_ he realized. _Someone will step on it._

He was the only one in the apartment, and he hadn’t planned on leaving the couch anytime soon. But the thought nagged at him, so he eased himself to his feet, stared at the glass for another moment, and left to find the broom.

Bone wasn’t cut as easily as flesh, but he tried to move as carefully as his shaking hands would allow as he collected the shards into a cloth and threw them away. For another long moment he simply stood by the trash bin, feeling like he might heave into it if he still had a stomach. But he couldn’t stand here forever, so he should probably go back to sitting on the couch, or something.

_Tap, tap, tap_.

Without thinking he rushed to the window to try to catch a glimpse of _what_ was making the noise, to prove (to whom?) that he _wasn’t_ losing his mind. Just as he saw a flash of an unidentifiable shape outside, his foot caught something, and he slipped, crashing to the floor in a noisy clatter and clash of bones. With a pained groan he pulled himself back together, sitting up and rolling his shoulders. His body ached more from disuse than from the fall.

Héctor went to push himself upright, only to find that he was missing two digits on his right hand. Frowning, he tried to summon them back, and heard them clack lightly against something propped against the wall:

His guitar case.

Silently he rose, gripping the handle of the case and pulling it away, allowing his missing fingers to zip back over to his hand. He found himself sitting down on the couch again, guitar case in his lap, and staring down at it.

Did he really want to do this?

_Papá got it for me_ , he thought distantly, and he removed it from the case mechanically, running his phalanges over the polished wood _. And he doesn’t like things being wasted._

When his papá ran the _panadería_ , he would strive to make sure nothing was wasted, taking home anything that was soon to go stale, and eating it while it was still edible. Some days Héctor was grateful for the food, prepared by his own _papá_ ; other days he felt he would be sick if he had to look at another piece of bread.

Right now, he felt more like the latter as he stared at the strings, imagining himself coaxing music from them. He felt sick at the thought of playing again—it felt wrong, after something like this, to make something that brought joy, in the face of this kind of devastating sorrow.

Another memory arose, this time of Imelda and Ernesto sitting on either side of him, Imelda’s arms around his shaking frame, and Ernesto’s firm hand on his back. At one point Ernesto had stepped away, and he had wanted to cry out for his friend to come back, only to stop upon hearing the familiar sound of heavy wood being lifted, of strings creaking. Imelda had sighed into his shoulder, not in annoyance. Shortly after, Ernesto had begun to play, and soon Imelda’s shaking voice joined his music. The song itself hadn’t mattered as much as the knowledge that his friends were there, their music carrying him away from the pain and cruelties of the world, at least for a little while.

He found himself holding the guitar, his shaking hands picking out the tune his _hermano_ had played years ago. He didn’t have the voice to sing the words, but it was better that way. He closed his eyes, imagining Ernesto playing the music, imagining Imelda’s voice, shaky but soft, against his shoulder.


	2. Swipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor encounters a little thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! It's Friday, so here's the next chapter of the story. I'm hoping I'll be able to post one chapter a week until it's done... Only have two more chapters left to finish. And yes, NCY is still being worked on... as is my Fool-Off entry, which recently hit a massive problem, but I'm getting that sorted out. \o/;;
> 
> Thanks to Jaywings and Tomatosoupful for beta-reading for me! Here we go!

It was another day or so before Héctor felt like he could function.

The heavy yet empty weight in his chest still hung there, the knowledge that he’d lost his parents a second time, and it was still a terrible thought to dwell on. Just glancing at the wrong thing would make him crumple all over again. But at least he wasn’t lying on the couch constantly and staring at nothing. He was walking around the apartment, trying to eat ( _don’t let it go to waste_ , his papá would say), trying to play his guitar.

Whether any of it did any good, he didn’t know, but it was better than waiting to disappear. He was pretty sure he couldn’t disappear anyway, though a distant, terrible part of him whispered that it may be worth the attempt. Fortunately, a healthy fear of the unknown kept that thought at bay.

More often than not he found himself staring out the window as he played his guitar, watching life (death?) go on in the streets below. Everything felt so far away—he wasn’t sure how he could face the world outside once again. But as it was, he would need to eventually.

A knock came to the door, and Héctor forced himself to answer it with a wince. The man on the other side—his landlord—winced as well, as though preparing to be hit. Seeing Héctor was calm, however, he settled down, clearing his throat. “Señor Rivera, I, um…” heaving a sigh, he shook his head. “I understand this isn’t an easy time for you right now, so I will be giving you a grace period, but… I _will_ still need you to pay the rent. Do you understand?”

“ _Sí_ , I do,” he said, his voice still a little rough from a combination of both screaming himself hoarse and staying completely silent for extended periods.

“It’s due in one week. It would have been today, but…” The landlord gestured vaguely. “I understand why you might not have gone to work this week.”

Héctor wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t result in his falling apart, so he merely nodded, keeping his mouth shut tight.

“You know where the envelope goes, right? I know it was usually—” The landlord cut himself off, clearing his throat again. “Someone else did it.”

Héctor nodded slowly, his eyes turned downward.

“… _Lo siento_ , Héctor.” With that, the man slipped away, leaving Héctor standing blankly in the doorway.

Money—that was right. He’d need to start working again. Looking back at the guitar he’d left sitting by the window, he frowned. Could he really do that again? Just… go back to the band again, pull out his guitar and play? Was the band even meeting in the same spot anymore?

As he walked back to the window to retrieve his guitar, he glanced outside, down the several stories to the ground, and a dark voice whispered that maybe jumping from here would be enough to make him not come back. Shuddering, he grabbed his guitar and rushed out of his apartment, down the stairwell, and out the door, eager to get away from those thoughts. Music—that’s what he would think about now. Music.

Before he realized where he was walking, he found himself overwhelmed in the midst of the passersby, walking from one place to another, to jobs, to family, to errands. One man whistled a tune as he strolled past Héctor, and a young child eagerly tugged on her _tia’s_ arm to direct her to a store filled with colorful candies. A deer-like _alebrije_ crossed his path, its graceful footsteps keeping steady the skeleton that leaned upon it.

Life went on as normal, as though a soul hadn’t just disappeared a week ago. As though souls _couldn’t_ disappear at any moment. It wasn’t fair, for life to go on, when it felt like his had ground to a sudden halt. He felt like a rusted cog in a machine—stuck between moving parts, forcing and pushing down on him until he broke.

He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t move, he felt like he was suffocating out here, he couldn’t do this—

Something zipped by his head, a noise between a _buzz_ and a flap, and he blinked, taking a deep breath, then another.

_One thing at a time_ , he heard his mother’s voice say. He had been young, and overwhelmed by a problem of some sort, though he couldn’t remember what, now—only that it had seemed insurmountable at the time. _Focus on one thing at a time_ , she’d told him, and with that advice, he’d made it through.

_One thing at a time_.

Héctor needed to go to the fountain at the plaza where his band usually met. He could handle that.

With another deep breath to calm his nerves, Héctor let his feet carry him down the familiar path to the plaza. When he approached the fountain, however, his bones were gripped in a cold, icy panic when he found no band members there—there was no one waiting for the others to arrive, no one standing around practicing, not even a skeleton holding an instrument. Just people sitting around the fountain or passing through the plaza.

_They’re not here,_ he realized, feeling the wind sucked out of him. Perhaps they’d gotten a gig somewhere, but he had no way of knowing where. Or perhaps they’d even disbanded. Or…

Something scratched against the neck of his guitar case, close to his ear. He shuddered, reaching back to grab it, but there was no one behind him. He kept his hand against the case, and, after a moment, eased it off his shoulders, setting it on the ground.

If the band wasn’t here, he could at least play for tips. Then he’d check here again tomorrow, and hopefully he wouldn’t miss them, if they were still meeting. If he _did_ miss them, well… _one thing at a time_.

Leaving his case open on the ground, he eased the guitar strap over his head, and began plucking out a familiar song, one he wouldn’t have to sing along to. A few people standing by the fountain turned their heads to him, listening along, and one stepped up to toss a couple coins into his guitar case. Slowly the tension left his bones as he continued to play, letting himself get lost in the music. He made it through the first song, earning himself a few more coins, and launched into the second without pause. If he let himself stop to think for even a moment, he knew he would fall apart.

A dark shape swooped down in front of him.

He struck a sour note, jumping back and looking around frantically, but whatever it was had gone. To his relief, a few of the other skeletons were also looking around in confusion—they’d seen it too. With a nervous laugh he resumed the song, and everyone seemed to forget the interruption.

The shape swooped in front of him again, and this time he saw it fluttering and diving around above his head. Gasping, he staggered back, nearly falling backward into the fountain. This time, the shape took a nosedive toward his guitar case, snatched up a coin, and flew off.

“Wh— _hey_!” he cried out, his voice still rough, jumping away from the fountain. He nearly gave chase, but paused for just a moment to pull his guitar to his back, and to close his guitar case so he could carry it. “ _Oye!_ Wait!”

In response, the dark shape took off away from the fountain, out of the plaza and down another street. Héctor wasn’t entirely sure why he was giving this creature chase over a coin—he could certainly earn more—but it bothered him enough that he didn’t try to stop himself. A few times when he lost sight of the creature momentarily, he would look around the corner to find it flying in circles over a spot. When he got nearer, however, it would take off again, almost as though it wanted him to follow.

Finally the creature dropped the coin in front of a building Héctor didn’t recognize. He didn’t care, and quickly dove down to snatch the money up and put it in his pouch before it could be stolen again. He looked around for whatever creature had swiped it off of him, but couldn’t immediately spot where it went. It didn’t appear to be flying around anywhere, but perhaps it had gone into the building?

He stepped inside to find out, finding himself in a restaurant with a decent-sized lunch crowd. Glancing around for any sign of the creature, he stopped short, mouth agape.

“Hey, is that…”

“Oh, it is! Hah, Héctor decided to show up after all.”

“You got your guitar? C’mon, _amigo_!”

It was the band he’d joined, standing up on the little stage off in the corner. There weren’t many of them—only five counting Héctor—and they barely seemed to fit as it was, but Héctor didn’t care, hurrying to join them and squeeze himself into his usual spot. “I… I didn’t think I would find you guys,” he said, shoulders sagging in relief.

“We thought you’d quit or something,” one of them muttered. “Haven’t seen you in ‘bout a week.”

Héctor bit his lip, maneuvering his guitar to his front again. “Things… h-haven’t been going so well,” he admitted, swallowing. He waited for one of them to press him, but no one did—anyone who might have cared only shrugged their shoulders. Suddenly nervous, Héctor straightened. “What are we playing?”

“Some of the ones from the revolution. You should know all of ‘em.”

That was a relief. He would probably be okay, then. “ _Gracias_.”

The man gave a short hum in response. Before anyone could say anything else, a patron sitting a few tables back called out, asking them when they were going to start. And that was that. They began their songs, Héctor easily falling back into the comfort of routine. He did not join the others in singing—he wasn’t sure he could yet manage that—but the others had him covered in that respect, as they’d been singing and playing without him for a week now.

By the time it was over, Héctor was exhausted; that was the most work he’d done in a while. But tired as he was, part of him felt good about falling into the routine of work again—it felt like stretching sore muscles that hadn’t been used in some time. Much better than sitting around at home. Home was where he would have to return, however, and after collecting his share of the pay, he followed his fellow musicians out of the restaurant.

The moment he stepped out, he heard the _buzz-flap_ noise of the creature that had stolen from him earlier, and jumped back, immediately crashing into the two men behind him.

“ _Oye_!” one of them called. “What gives?!”

“ _Lo siento_ ,” Héctor muttered, wincing as he looked around. “I’ve—I’ve been followed by some little creature. I thought I’d lost it, but it came back.”

One of the men eyed him. “ _Sí. On_ your back.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Héctor frantically swatted his hand around behind him, and felt a slight tug as something let go of the back of his shirt. Again he could hear the fluttering sound as the creature flew up over him, flapping its wide wings in such a way to stay roughly a foot over his head. Now that he wasn’t quite as panicked, he could make out the glowing red-orange stripes on the inside of its midnight-blue webbed wings. “What _is_ that?!” he cried in desperation, glaring up at the creature. It may have been a bat, but the shape wasn’t quite right. “It’s been bothering me all day! What’s it want from me?”

“It’s an _alebrije_.”

Diego, the leader of the band, normally said very little unless he was singing. Héctor turned to him in surprise, finding the man staring up at the creature above his head.

“Think maybe it’s following you,” Diego went on, turning his gaze back to Héctor, “because it’s _yours_?”

“ _Mine_?” Héctor repeated, head snapping back up to look at the creature. “But I don’t have an _alebrije_.”

As though in response, the _alebrije_ fluttered down lower. Though Héctor tried to back away, it swooped around him in a circle before clinging upside-down to the pouch that hung from his belt. It then wrapped its wings around itself, tucking itself so small, it could have easily slipped into the pouch.

“You do now.”

“But I—!” He gawked at the thing that was now obstinately clinging to him, wanting to brush it off, but afraid of… being bitten? Could an _alebrije’s_ teeth leave marks on bone? He didn’t want to find out. “This can’t be right.”

One of the other men, Juan, stooped down to get a better look at the creature. “Well, it seems to think it is!” he said, snickering. He poked at it gingerly with his finger, only to yelp when the head popped out from under the wings to nip him. “Ow!”

Okay, so definitely don’t touch it, then. Héctor bit his lip. “If this… thing is my _alebrije_ , why’s it only showing up now?”

Diego tilted his head, regarding the _alebrije_ with a frown. “They’re supposed to show up when you need guidance.”

A familiar, heavy-yet-empty weight began tugging at where his heart used to be, and his legs trembled, threatening to buckle. The _alebrije_ let out a shrill _peep_ , snapping him out of it and grounding him. “Guide…ance…?” Héctor repeated, staring down at the creature. It had ducked its head under its wings again before he got the chance to look at it. “Where’s it supposed to guide me?”

Now Diego looked back at him, cocking a brow bone. “Tell me when you find out,” he said, and walked away.

“Dinky-lookin’ thing,” Juan muttered, shaking the hand the _alebrije_ had bitten as he walked by. “Mean sucker, though.”

Eventually Héctor was left alone, aside from the midnight-blue lump still stubbornly clinging to his pouch. “Uh… eh… don’t I get a say in this?” he stammered helplessly. When the _alebrije_ did not respond, he sighed, heading in the direction of his apartment. Maybe it would get bored on the way there and leave him alone.

It did not get bored and leave him alone. Instead, the bat continued to huddle against him, never dropping off—he had to glance down at it a few times just to see if it was still even there. No one else seemed to give him a second glance as he walked, but then, no one tended to notice _alebrijes_ this small. Héctor sure hadn’t until now. He wasn’t entirely sure what his landlord’s policy was on pets, but hopefully this wouldn’t be a problem.

When he reached his apartment, Héctor stepped inside, glancing down at the tiny _alebrije_ once again. This time it seemed to be stirring, poking its head out from under its wings. Just as Héctor cautiously bent closer to try to get a better look at the thing, it spread its wings wide and _leaped_ off of him, causing him to stagger backward and crash into a rocking chair behind him. Frantically he scrambled back up, just in time to see the little dark shape find a spot on the ceiling and cling to it.

“That’s where you’re gonna stay, eh?” he asked, cocking a brow bone at the bat. “Just… don’t get in the way, uh…” He then scratched his head, scrutinizing the tiny form. “Are you a boy or a girl?”

The bat poked its head out from under its wings, let out another high-pitched _peep_ , and tucked its head in again.

“Uh… girl. Um… don’t get in the way, _señorita_?” He shrugged helplessly, but the bat said nothing, remaining tucked into her wings. “Though I’m not sure… how you would, given your… never mind.” Heaving a sigh, he took a seat on the couch once more, setting his guitar case aside. “Not like I’ll be doing much here,” he muttered, sinking down into the threadbare cushions. After walking around town like that and playing for an hour or more, he was quite worn out, but something else kept him awake. Frowning, he reached into his pocket to find his notebook (a new brown one his parents had bought him, not the red one he’d had in life), and flipped to a new page with the intent of jotting down a few new ideas. They’d been sparse over the past few weeks, and he felt the need to write some of them down before they escaped him.

At first the notes came haltingly, as he worked to get his songwriting gears turning again. But soon enough they were pouring out of him, fragments of ideas and stories and rhymes.

The songs that came to mind were not joyful ones. The words that flowed from his pencil were words of sorrow and loss, of love and loved ones far out of reach, of things ending before their time came. As he wrote, he found his pencil shaking as his hand trembled. One word—a single, innocuous word—worked its way onto the page, and he suddenly set the pencil and notebook aside, covering his face as his chest heaved and shoulders shook. _No,_ basta _, what’s wrong with you? We’ve been through this. There’s no need to cry about it all over again._

_Flap._

There was a sudden _something_ on his head, partially covering the top of his wig and partially wrapped around the side of his face. It felt light and gentle, other than the slight prick of tiny claws against his skull and cheekbone.

And the feeling of a little tongue licking the side of his face.

Héctor let out a chuckle, wiping the tears away from his face even as more of them fell. “ _Lo siento_. I invite you into my house only to turn into a mess.” Carefully he lifted the _alebrije_ off of his face, holding her out in front of him. This time she didn’t wrap her wings around her body, instead gripping his hand with the tiny claws on her wings.

Now that he could see her better, he gave her a closer look-over: her body and wings were mostly midnight-blue, with a thick, padded purple belly and, strangely, a segmented shell, like an armadillo—that explained why the shape seemed wrong, as the shell gave her a curved back. Her wings bore bright red-and-orange stripes within the blue on the inside, and upon her head was another smaller set of wingsthat seemed to double as ears.She was so small. He could cover her completely with his hand if she tucked herself into her wings again, or curled into a ball.

“You’re really my _alebrije_ , huh?” he murmuredas she stared up at him with her yellow eyes.

_Peep._ She was so close now, the sound almost hurt his non-existent ears.

Realizing he’d never given her a proper greeting, he straightened his back, holding her up higher. “ _Hola. Me llamo Héctor_. _¿Cual es…?_ ”

_Peep._

Of course, she couldn’t answer. Sighing, he lowered his hand, holding the bat closer to his lap. As he did so, he saw his notebook out of the corner of his eye, noting it had fallen open to another page. He stared at it blankly, as though inspiration would jump out of the lyric-less music, and winced when he felt the _alebrije_ climbing up his arm, her tiny wing-claws pricking at his bone.

Suddenly he snatched up the book, staring at a word he’d written in the top left corner above the sheet music.He read it over a few times, then looked back at the bat, who was now lying on his shoulder. “…Pizzicato?” he asked, hesitantly.

The _alebrije_ lifted her head.

“Do you like that name? It’s like a, uh… kind of music played by plucking the strings of a guitar…”

_Peep!_

A smile tugged at his tearstained face. “That’s a _yes_?”

_Peep!_

“ _Bueno._ Pizzicato, then.” Sighing, he settled back against the couch, feeling his emotional exhaustion set in again. It was still early evening, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Even with the progress he’d made today, he still knew that around the corner were little reminders about whom he’d lost, reminders that he was alone.

A little tongue darted against the side of his face again, and he gave a tired laugh.

Well, okay.

Maybe not _completely_ alone.


	3. Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor and his _alebrije_ decide to start a new _Dia de Muertos_ tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Another Friday, another new chapter. 
> 
> Once again, _Neither Can You_ is still in the works... kinda? I'm... actually focusing more on this fic right now since my brain is just stuck on NCY. Again, it's not that I don't know what's going to happen next--I DO. My brain just doesn't want to cooperate with writing it right now. Since this fic is very _very_ close to being completed (I already have the next chapter and 3/4ths of the one after that complete, and after that there's only one chapter left), I figure I might as well finish this one first. Then I should be able to get back into NCY and get that finished! And... then I'll write the rest of my Bingo fics.
> 
> *Whew!*
> 
> Got a lot to work on... Anyway, thanks to Jaywings and Tomatosoupful for beta reading! You guys rock.

“ _Mira_ , it’s just once a year—”

_Peep!_

“I know, but really, it’s just one day. One _night_ , even!”

_PEEP!_

“Pizzicato!” Héctor cried, and the bat stopped her fluttering, though her feet were obstinately clinging to the handle of his guitar case. “I will play for you when we get back. Okay?”

Pizzicato opened her mouth, baring her teeth and making a distinctly displeased rattling noise.

For a moment Héctor felt like he was dealing with Coco when she was in one of her stubborn moods, and the thought immediately sent a pang through his chest, cementing his decision. Softening, he stooped down closer to the _alebrije_ , who shut her mouth, but still glared. “I know you want me to play music for you now, but this… this is more important to me than _anything_. Do you understand?”

Pizzicato’s ear-wings folded back, and she dipped her head with a quiet whine. Finally she let go of the guitar case, flitting back into the air and over Héctor’s head.

Relieved, he got to his feet again, brushing off his pant legs to make sure they were still clean. He had to look his best, in case— _when_ he crossed. “Good! Let’s go, then.” With a sharp whistle, he strode out the door and out of the apartment, Pizzicato casting one last glance at the guitar before dutifully following.

It wasn’t quite sunset yet, but the streets were already crowded, all manner of souls and _alebrijes_ alike filling the streets with life (so to speak). The excitement was tangible as people carried baskets and even carts in the direction of the marigold bridges, while others rushed to the plazas and all the parties and concerts that would be held this night.

_You’re sure you don’t want to join us?_ Juan had offered. _I mean, it’s not like you get to cross any—_

Héctor flinched, both at the words, and at the memory of Diego swiftly kicking Juan in the shin before he could finish. _Offer_ is _open, regardless_ , the band leader had said.

It wasn’t that they couldn’t cross—they just didn’t plan to spend the entire night on the other side. While some spent as much time as possible in the Land of the Living with their families, for others, the night was a simpler affair. And… well, there were a lot of souls out tonight, and a lot of money to be made with music.

But all the money in the world wouldn’t give Héctor what he wanted most right now.

“ _Oye_ , watch it!”

A hand pushed Héctor back, startling him out of his thoughts. On the street in front of him, right where he’d been about to put his foot, a snake _alebrije_ hissed at him, its bright scales rapidly shifting colors as it shook its rattle. Its owner stooped down to scoop the snake up, and it slithered around the man’s shoulders before turning to glare at Héctor. “Uh—sorry, sorry,” Héctor said, forcing a smile as he stepped off to the side, closer to the sidewalk.

Pizzicato continued to flutter over his head, her _buzz-flap_ a familiar, melodic rhythm.

“Good thing you don’t have to worry about that, eh?” he asked, grinning up at her. It was nice to have someone to talk to as he walked around town; occasionally it earned him looks, but he didn’t care. Honestly he could understand why, since he’d been a bit skeptical of spirit guides when he’d first come here.

_Don’t worry,_ mijo _, you get used to them! Sort of._

_He says that because he’s still not used to the dragons._

_Can_ anyone _get used to dragons?!_

Héctor’s heart clenched at the memory. This was the first _Dia de Muertos_ he would spend without—

_No, no, not again._ He swallowed once, then again, trying to rid himself of the lump that was choking his throat. It would be a year in a few months, and yet even after all that time, the little things would still come back—little reminders that _they_ were no longer there.

_Peep!_

Something soft settled against his head, and he sighed, idly reaching up to stroke Pizzicato’s shell. “ _Lo siento_. I was thinking about them again,” he muttered. The bat gave a small whine in response. “They… had the same problem as me. Th-that is, when we got to the bridge, we couldn’t… um.” He shook himself bodily, _no, no reason to think about that._ “But I—I think they’ll—they _would_ be proud of me, this time, when I make it.”

She didn’t respond, this time leaping off his head and fluttering back into the air.

“Hey! Just wait until you see my _familia_!” he said, swallowing down his anxiety as he looked back up at her. “My Coco would like you. I always told her how bats didn’t sing like birds do, but they dance in the air.”

Pizzicato gave a loud _peep_ at that, weaving gracefully around the air up ahead of him. Some other skeletons even took notice, a few children pointing her out.

“ _Sí_ , just like that!” The crowds were getting denser now as they got closer to the Santa Cecilia gate, and he knew he would have a decent wait ahead of him. For a moment he frowned at the cluster of people ahead, but the colors of the bat were easily distracting. Shaking himself, he focused on her again. “I took her outside one night and we set out some sugar water, and sure enough, one came dancing through the sky. She loved it.”

Pizzicato did a loop-the-loop before fluttering back over to him, hooking herself onto the pouch on his belt.

“Maybe you can dance for her again, when we get there.”

Like before, she did not respond. It made something tug beneath his rib cage, but he ignored it, continuing to follow the crowd as they neared the gates. Perhaps she wasn’t making any noise because she didn’t know _how_ to respond… or she didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter. She’d understand, once they crossed.

And they would. This time, he was certain of it.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah… no, sorry, _señor_.”

The tension in Héctor’s chest seemed to solidify into a weight that plummeted through his rib cage, nearly making him crash to the cobblestones beneath him. “Wh- _what_?” he stammered, running a hand through his wig. ”It’s—it can’t be, not again. You’re _sure_ you’re looking at the right page?”

The attendant eyed him over her glasses before staring down at the thick book in front of her again. It was full of names, organized by surname, and had either copies of photos or sketches of tributes pasted onto each page. Under his name (or what probably _wasn’t_ his name—probably some poor _hombre_ who happened to share the same name and hometown as him), there was nothing. She turned the book around for him to see, only to yank it back when he tried to snatch it away from her.

“Wait—give me that! There’s got to be a mistake!” Héctor cried, reaching out for the book in vain. Pizzicato was chirping frantically above his head, but he ignored her. “Please, it’s been so long since I—he—he _had_ to tell my wife at some point. He’s told her by _now_ , hasn’t he? Sh-she has to know I’m gone, Coco misses me—”

The rational part of him that had been shoved into the far corners of his mind knew he was hysterical, unreasonable, that this person could do nothing for him. But that was not the part that was in control right now.

Later he would realize that the poor woman was _very_ unsettled by his desperate behavior and was trying valiantly to hide it under a calm, professional mask. As it was, though, for now she was simply a barrier, and it didn’t help when she continued: “ _Señor_ , I’m sorry, but you cannot cross. Please step back or I _will_ call security.”

In years prior, his parents would have quietly pulled him away by this point, but without them to talk sense into him, he had nothing to hold him back. Nothing, except for—

“ _OUCH!_ ”

He’d made a reach for the book again, only for what felt like several sharp needles to stab into his hand. Pizzicato was biting down into him, and not letting go. “ _AGH!_ Stop, stop—”

“ _Señor, por favor_ , listen to your _alebrije_.”

He looked down at Pizzicato, and she stared back at him—not with anger, but with sorrow. Something caught in his throat, and without another word, he stumbled away from the gates. The _alebrije_ let go, and flitted after him.

At some point he found himself sitting on a bench, not quite sure when he’d got there or how far he was from the gates to the bridge. His hand still stung, but it was nothing compared to the terrible feeling building in his chest that was quickly threatening to overwhelm him.

Once again, he was denied the chance of getting to see his living family—his Imelda and his Coco and even Ernesto. And now he didn’t even have family on this side to spend the night with.

The feeling in his rib cage bubbled up through his throat, and he covered his face against the sobs that shook him.

Pizzicato was at his side immediately, settling lightly against his cheekbone, her wings wrapped gingerly around his head and shoulder. Her little tongue tickled the side of his face—an apology and a comfort. No other soul approached them—someone weeping just outside the gates was not a sight people liked to dwell on.

Eventually Héctor pulled her away from his face, holding her out in front of him as he fought to regain his composure. “Why can’t I cross, Pizzicato…?” he mumbled, swallowing back another hiccup. “Don’t they know? Don’t they… m-miss me?”

_We don’t know,_ his papá would have said. _There’s no good in tearing yourself apart trying to understand._

_They still love you,_ his mamá would have said. _Why would they not?_

The bat, however, was unable to provide input, only tilting her head and licking his hand gingerly where she’d bitten it before.

“If they love me, why d-don’t they just… put up my photo?” Drawing in a shaking breath, he reached into his pouch, finding a carefully-folded piece of paper—a portrait of himself, taken back when he’d still been on tour with Ernesto. He’d thought someone might find the photo on his person when they buried him. Unless he’d been buried with it, but that might not be the case, someone from the Department of Family Reunions had explained to him when he’d first died. You woke up in possession of what was on your person when you’d died, and later, received whatever you were buried with. Apparently he’d been buried in his mariachi suit, and with nothing else, since he never received anything from the department, even months and years after his death.

A quiet sniffing noise brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked to find Pizzicato examining his photo. “ _¿Muy guapo, eh?_ ” he asked, smiling against his dried tears. “This was me when I was alive. I didn’t have many photos… just this one, and a… family portrait.” That would’ve been nice to see again… He wished he’d had a photo of his wife or daughter with him when he left. It would’ve been good to have now.

_Peep._

He blinked, staring at his own photo for a moment. “…Only two photos,” he murmured. He’d discussed it with his parents before—the idea that maybe the photos had been lost somehow. They hadn’t been certain, but it would make sense, wouldn’t it? After all, why else wouldn’t they put up his photo if they knew he was gone? Though there should have been a tribute of some sort, at least, but… but maybe that didn’t count, since he _did_ have a photo. That made sense, right?

Sitting upright, he brought the photo closer to his face while Pizzicato fluttered in his other hand. “What if… what if I could bring _this_ photo over?” Héctor wondered aloud, rubbing his thumb over the worn paper. “Just crossing over once would be hard with those guards, but… but if I could bring my photo to _them,_ and they could set it on the _ofrenda_ , then I wouldn’t have to worry about it again!” Turning to the _alebrije,_ he grinned down at her. “What do you think? Think it could work?”

Folding up her ear-wings, the bat gave a whine.

“I know, I know it’ll be hard, but… I _have_ to do it. Just once! Then I don’t have to do it again, right?” Already he was standing up, and Pizzicato jumped out of his hand, flying up around his head again. With his other hand now free, Héctor rubbed the tear stains off of his face, feeling more confident. “We’ll just sneak past the guards and cross the bridge ourselves.”

Pizzicato didn’t look terribly confident about this, turning away from him and looking out toward the street, in the direction of one of the plazas.

“No, we’re not doing that right now.” Shaking his head, Héctor turned back toward the gates. “The bridge is only here one night a year. If we don’t do this now, we’ll have to wait another year, and—” He ran a hand through his hair.

Looking him up and down, the _alebrije_ dipped in the air for a moment. (Was Héctor imagining things, or did she have a resigned look on her face?) But then she picked herself back up, flying toward the gates to Santa Cecilia with slow, even flaps.

With a lighter heart, Héctor followed the alebrije, feeling more encouraged than he’d felt in… well, over a year. This _had_ to work—they had all night to make it work. Just get past the guards, run across the bridge, put up his photo, and return.

They could do this.

 

* * *

 

 

“You _cannot_ do this.”

“No, no, you don’t understand!” Héctor struggled in the grasps of the security guards that dragged him away, Pizzicato frantically fluttering after him, occasionally diving at the guards. As it turned out, sneaking past the security was easier said than done. “I-I just needed to do it once! J-just one time!”

“This is for your own good, _señor_ ,” one guard said, waving a hand at Pizzicato when she got too close. “Trust us.”

“No, please…! Can’t you just—?!”

“Unless you want to fall straight through those flower petals and into the sea, _no_.”

“But I’m not forgotten! I’m remembered—they still—” Anger choked his voice as he struggled against the guards, but they only tightened their grip on him.

He was being dragged away from the gates, past the stares of onlookers, and to the Department of Family Reunions. Héctor remembered the place from when he’d first arrived here, and when he and his parents had come to ask why they couldn’t cross. Neither memories had been happy ones, and he couldn’t imagine this time would be any more joyful. Rather than being taken to one of the many desks in the open office, he was taken to a smaller room where a tired woman in a blue uniform sat. She looked up when they entered, straightening in her seat.

“This young man tried to sneak past security after harassing one of the attendants,” one of the guards explained, leading Héctor to a chair. They stood to either side of him, ready to act if he tried to bolt, and gestured for him to sit.

Héctor did not sit, at least, not until Pizzicato alighted on his shoulder and tugged on his collar. Sighing, he faced the woman—a “corrections officer,” a term he would soon be very, very familiar with—and folded his hands together pleadingly. “ _Por favor, señora_ , I don’t mean any trouble,” he said, dipping his head. “I just… I just need to see my family.”

The woman looked him up and down. “Your name, _señor_?”

“Héctor Rivera.”

Immediately standing, the corrections officer turned to a file cabinet behind her, leafing through the files in a drawer before pulling a thin one out. It only bore a few small notes in it, though one of the guards handed her another slip of paper. She set it next to the other papers and skimmed over them. “Hm. Nothing _terrible_ , but this is not a good trend, Señor Rivera _._ ”

Héctor blinked. “Ah… _¿que?_ ”

“While you haven’t committed any offenses prior to this, you’ve been exhibiting increasingly desperate behavior every _Dia de Muertos._ We take note of this, _señor_ , because it may lead to an individual doing something very foolish.”

“But I haven’t done anything!” Héctor cried, only to flinch at a short growl from Pizzicato. “Okay, okay, I _did_ try to sneak by the guards, but… but only once! I only need to get through j-just once, then I can put my photo up.” He pulled the photo out of his pouch, holding it up to the officer.

Rather than giving him an understanding or even sympathetic look, she ran her hand down her face. “Señor Rivera, that is not how it works. The dead cannot interact with the living in any way, and cannot pass items to them.”

_Oh_. Sheepishly folding the photo, he returned it to his pocket. “Is… is it so wrong that I want to see my family?”

“Probably not, but it doesn’t change the fact that you will be physically unable to cross the bridge if you have no photo or tribute on the other side.” She shook her head, glancing over the papers one more time before shutting the folder. She then snatched a form, which she began to write on. “This is your first offense, so I’ll let you off with a warning for now.”

Héctor stared at the paper that was handed to him without reading it, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

“I recommend you _not_ try this again. You are not the first, and those who have gone before you were a lot less lucky.”

“Less lucky…?”

“The guards did not reach them on time.” Sighing, the corrections officer looked him in the eyes, this time truly looking sympathetic. “For your own sake, _señor_ , I recommend you try to enjoy the holiday on _this_ side of the bridge, and not attempt a stunt like that again.”

Héctor nodded slowly, his gaze falling back down to the paper in his hand.

“You’re free to go, Señor Rivera. _Feliz Dia de Muertos_.”

“ _Gracias._ ”

Pizzicato hopped off Héctor’s shoulder as he slowly made his way out of the building. She chirped at him once or twice, but he ignored her as he walked down the street, away from the building, his mind working slowly over everything he’d heard at the corrections office. “Not the first,” he muttered quietly, gazing down at the warning notice he’d received.

Something clicked. He stopped suddenly, turning to look up at Pizzicato, and held the paper up toward her. “See this, Pizzicato?” he said, allowing her to sniff at the sheet. “Take a good look at it, _amiga_ , because this is the last time you’ll see one of these!” With that, he crumpled up the paper, tossed it roughly to the ground, and stomped on it.

Pizzicato gave a surprised _peep_ , fluttering backward for a moment before zipping in front of him again, ear-wings folded.

“They’re wrong about all of this,” he said, feeling his heart burn with a determination and energy he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “Others haven’t made it across without a photo, no, but _I_ will. _We_ will.” Holding out his hand, he waited for the bat to alight on it before holding her close. “We won’t be like the others, Pizzicato. We won’t get caught, or give up, or fail. My family’s out there waiting, and I’m not going to keep them long. I don’t care what the dumb officers said—we _will_ cross that bridge.”

Pizzicato stared at him for a while, ears still folded back, her bright eyes conveying something that seemed a mix between concerned and conflicted. But finally she spread her wings, flapping them without flying, and gave a loud _peep_.

That was all the confirmation Héctor needed. “Glad to have someone on my side,” he said, stroking his free hand over her shell.

“You’re a good friend, Pizzicato.”


	4. Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor hears some familiar music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! I'm kinda busy today, so, thanks to Tomatosoupful and Jaywings for beta-reading this for me! Hope you folks enjoy--this chapter's a bit longer.

It had been a little strange at first, hearing people request his songs.

Not _too_ strange, Héctor supposed—it wasn’t as though he never sang the songs himself. Sometimes when busking alone, when the band couldn’t meet up, he would sing “Poco Loco” or “The World Es Mi Familia.” The crowds seemed to enjoy them, and Pizzicato absolutely _adored_ them.

While she normally danced through the air to his music, it was when he really found himself getting into it—easiest to do with his own songs—that she would perform a fascinating trick. As he played, the markings on her wings would flash, and then strands of colors would fill the air, weaving and flowing in time to his music. While it was nothing unique—it wasn’t uncommon for _alebrijes_ to be able to do fantastic things, after all—it still drew in crowds, which he was grateful for. She would even do it when he played with the rest of his band, if there was enough space, and they appreciated it as well.

Oddly, as time went on, his songs were requested with more and more frequency. “Word of mouth?” he’d wondered aloud to Pizzicato one day, but she could only give a noncommittal _squeak_ in response. That didn’t explain the recently-dead who seemed to know his songs, though. It was confusing, but he wouldn’t let it bother him.

Until he learned the reason for it.

They were packing up after a successful performance one day when Juan nudged him. “Ey, with your bat’s fireworks show and de la Cruz’s music, we’re rollin’ in the money!”

Héctor’s guitar case dropped to the ground, and Pizzicato let out a startled _peep_ , darting away for a moment before fluttering anxiously over his head. “Wh- _what_?”

Juan stared at him in bewilderment. “Uh… I guess we’re not really _rich_ or anything, but—”

“No, no… _lo siento_.” Héctor ran his hand through his hair, then moved it away so Pizzicato could alight on his head. “It’s just, I thought you said… _de la Cruz_. Must have mis—”

“Yeah?” Antonio said, hefting up his accordion case. “You know, what everyone’s been requesting like crazy?”

He froze for a moment, then found himself stroking Pizzicato’s shell, trying to calm himself. “But… you don’t mean _Ernesto_?”

The other band members looked around amongst themselves before giving him a strange look. “ _¿Sí?_ The Great Ernesto de la Cruz.” Juan scratched his head. “Are you feeling all right, _amigo_?”

“I—no, uh…” Héctor rubbed his forehead for a moment while Pizzicato clambered over to the side of his face, licking his cheek. Finally he sat down atop his guitar case, his head resting against his knuckles, elbow on his knee. The _Great_ Ernesto de la Cruz. “I… guess he really made it, then.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He… he made it. Ernesto made it. He took our songs, and… and made them famous.”

Before anyone could question him further, he found himself leaping to his feet, letting out a tremendous _grito_. Pizzicato fluttered away from him, startled, and he was pretty sure the other band members were looking at him like he was nuts, but he didn’t care. Ernesto had made it! Even though Héctor had gone and _died_ on him like that, even though Ernesto had had to bear that terrible weight, Ernesto had managed to press on and become famous, just like he’d wanted!

“He actually did it!” He rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead, laughing. “I told him he’d—”

“ _You_ told him?” Antonio quirked a brow at him, looking back at the other band members, who shrugged.

“ _¡Sí!_ Ernesto and I were practically _hermanos_. I taught him how to play guitar, we played music together, we sang my songs—”

Laughter broke out around him, and he blinked. The other band members were all snickering around him, and not in a friendly way. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he heard the high-pitched rattle of Pizzicato’s hiss.

“I know you lie sometimes, Héctor, but this one…!” Juan said, covering his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter. “You’re a great _musico_ , don’t get me wrong, but… teaching _de la Cruz_ how to play guitar? Writing _his songs_?”

“It’s not a lie!” Héctor cried, throwing his hands out. “We grew up together! And those _are_ my songs!”

“Everyone knows Ernesto is self-taught, and wrote his _own_ music.”

Something jerked beneath his rib cage, and Héctor stumbled. “ _¿Qué?_ ”

Antonio stepped up to him, elbowing him in the side. “Got any other famous friends you haven’t told us about, Héctor?” he asked, only to start laughing again.

With an angry _hiss_ , Pizzicato dived at the man, who quickly stumbled away, shouting in surprise.

“Pizzicato, stop,” Héctor said, waving a hand at her until she fluttered behind him. “And I’m _not_ lying! You—you all just heard wrong. Those are _my_ songs! I—”

“Enough.”

Diego’s soft but firm voice silenced the rest of the group. Calmly he strode up to Héctor, placing a hand on his shoulder. “That’s enough joking. We’ll be meeting at the same place in two days, all right?”

“But I wasn’t—!” Héctor flinched when the man’s grip tightened slightly, and sighed. “Right. Okay.”

Nodding, Diego let go and stepped back. “ _Buenas noches,_ Héctor.” And with that, he and the rest of the band walked away, a few of them still exchanging quiet jabs and snickers.

Héctor’s throat tightened as he watched them leave, and once again Pizzicato alighted on the side of his head, licking his cheekbone. But he shook himself bodily, pulling the bat away from his face and holding him in front of her.

“Bah, who cares what they think!” he said, looking Pizzicato in the eyes. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. But _we_ know, don’t we?”

Pizzicato tipped her head to one side with a questioning _peep_.

“Ernesto made it,” he repeated, his smile finally returning. “It doesn’t matter if they don’t think I wrote those songs. Ernesto’s famous now, just like he wanted! And… and if he’s famous, he’s making money, which means he’s supporting Imelda!” And he laughed, though it made his heart ache. “She’s all right, Pizzicato. She and Coco… With Ernesto helping them, they’re all right. They’re okay.”

The bat’s ears folded back, but she licked his hand before resting her head against it.

He couldn’t tell if that was a sign of agreement or not, but he didn’t care. He was right. He knew he was.

His family was fine.

 

* * *

 

 

Things were slightly tense with the band after that. While Héctor made it a point to never bring up the fact that he’d written Ernesto’s music, they would occasionally send verbal jabs at him between songs. “Not bad! Did you write _that_ one, too?” “Oh, Cielito Lindo? That’s one of yours, right?”

Héctor only gritted his teeth and ignored the comments as best as he could. Pizzicato, meanwhile, stopped making her colorful flourishes as they sang.

Still, the band was making money, and he was paying his rent while saving up for a house of his own. It wasn’t a _lot_ of savings, but he had a great deal of time before Imelda died, he hoped. By the time she got here, he should have at least enough money for a modest house for the two of them to live in. Who cared if no one believed that he’d written these songs—it didn’t matter. Not really. Recognition would be nice, but he didn’t _need_ it. All he needed was the money to get by and to save up, and that was it.

So he continued playing with the band, as he assumed he would until they finally decided to move on. It wasn’t ideal, but he would deal with it.

Or so he thought.

The evening had been progressing as normal. They were performing in a cantina tonight, on a little stage, playing different songs and occasionally taking requests from the patrons. Pizzicato was up on the ceiling and out of sight, her midnight-blue form blending in with the shadows, but Héctor would glance up every so often to see her yellow eyes staring down at him. They’d been asked to play two of “Ernesto’s” songs so far, which Juan and Antonio still chuckled over, but at least they didn’t throw jabs this time.

The second they finished a round of _The World Es Mi Familia_ , one patron slammed his glass onto the table with a loud cry. “ _AY!_ We’ve heard that a million times! Why don’t you sing the _new_ song?”

Some of the patrons began to murmur, while a few cheered in agreement. “The new song! The great one!” “Yes, sing that one!” “Let’s hear you sing it!”

Blinking, Héctor looked back at the others. “ _New_ song?” he asked, only to find that they were as confused as he was.

Suddenly Diego perked up with a _hum_ of recognition, and nodded. “I know the one,” he said. “I’ll sing it myself once. Follow me after.”

Héctor had no idea what this “new song” could be, but he lowered his guitar and stepped back, watching the band leader with a grin. New or old, he liked learning songs he’d never heard before.

Clearing his throat, Diego lifted his head, and began singing in his deep, resonating voice:

“ _Remember me… though I have to say goodbye…_ ”

And Héctor froze.

This was not a new song.

He felt like the floor had fallen out from beneath him as the words rang through his mind, and yet, though they were the same, they clashed so _terribly_ with the ones he still sang every night, the ones he’d penned himself, the ones he had sung in duet with his little girl all those years ago…

“ _For even if I’m far away, I hold you in my heart!_ ”

This was not a new song, but it was not _his_ song. It was not _her_ song. It was sung so _quickly_ , with a wink and a nudge, not slowly and tenderly like he’d written it. Not like it was being sung to a little girl who was going to miss him when he went away.

“ _I sing a secret song to you—each night we are apart!_ ”

A few knowing chuckles arose from the crowd, and Héctor realized with a twist in his gut that those words did not hold the same meaning as they did when he wrote them. They’d changed the meaning. This wasn’t being sung to a child, it was being sung to… to a _lover_? No, this wasn’t… he… had _Ernesto_ done this? How did he know about that song? How did _anyone_ other than Coco know about that song? Unless… unless he’d taken his songbook, and…

“ _Remember me, each time you hear a sad gui—_ ”

He couldn’t stand it anymore.

With a choked cry, Héctor staggered off the stage, nearly tripping over his own guitar case. He picked it up with numbed hands, stumbling through the crowd and out the door. Pizzicato swooped from the ceiling and out the door after him, while the band members shouted behind him. Yet he couldn’t stop—he felt sick, violated. That was _their_ song, and Ernesto had turned it into…

He found himself leaning against a wall on the near-deserted street, hand braced against the cool stone as he retched. There was nothing to bring up, of course, but that did little to rid him of the nausea that filled his marrow. Something told him Pizzicato was near, though she didn’t approach him.

Someone else, however, did. “What’s your problem?!” Antonio growled, storming up to him. “Why’d you ditch us like tha—”

_SCREECH!_

Héctor shut his eyes, willing his stomach to stop rolling as he listened to Pizzicato dive-bomb the man repeatedly. It was just as well. He didn’t want to talk to any of them about this. He barely wanted to _think_ about it. So he ignored Antonio’s cries and angered pleas for him to call off his “crazy bat” until finally the man stormed away on his own accord.

Sliding down to the ground, Héctor held out his hand while he kept his other clenched around where his stomach would be. Pizzicato obediently alighted on his open palm, whimpering as she licked his thumb repeatedly. “ _Lo siento_ ,” he choked out. “I… I don’t understand… he…”

No one else had known it. No one else had heard it. Even his _alebrije_ , every night he sang the song, would fly off to another room or shut her ear-wings respectfully. So why would Ernesto…?

“Nesto… he didn’t know, did he?” he asked, voice cracking as the corner of his mouth turned upward. “I-it was in my book. He… probably didn’t think it was any different.”

_But it still hurts._

Unable to speak any more, he clutched the _alebrije_ to his chest, sitting in the empty street with her as he tried to calm the shaking of his body. After a while, Pizzicato wriggled out of his hands and urged him away, leading him home. He followed in a lost, stumbling daze.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t go back to play with the band. Diego never reached out to him, and Pizzicato made sure he never saw them, guiding him away if she heard them nearby. He tried to seek out other bands to join, but ultimately couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Remember Me” was fast becoming the Land of the Dead’s favorite song, and no band would turn down the chance to play it.

Héctor busked alone.

The joy was gone from much of his music, at least for a while. To hear his most important, private song absolutely butchered by any mariachi seeking a few coins was unbearable. It hurt even to think about it. Even when busking, he couldn’t get away from it—inevitably someone would request it, and he would either pretend he’d never heard of it (which always earned him a few looks) or pack up early for the day.

In turn, he was earning less money, having to take from his meager savings to pay his rent.

One night, while he sat in his apartment and held out a plate of sugar water for Pizzicato to snack on, he heard his new neighbors making a fuss. This was not, in and of itself, unusual. The skeletons now neighboring his apartment were loud and excitable, prone to drinking and cheering and singing late into the night. At one point they’d even gotten a turntable, which, Héctor had to admit, was quite nice to listen to, even with the music muffled through the wall.

It seemed they’d gotten a new record for it, from what he could tell, and he smiled to himself as the sound of muffled trumpets filtered through their thin, shared wall.

Strangely, Pizzicato seemed less enthusiastic about this. Fluttering away from her sugar-water snack, she bit into Héctor’s bandana, tugging on it forcibly.

“Hang on,” he said, shushing her gently. “I’d like to hear this.”

Until the words started.

“ _Remember me… though I have to say goodbye—_ ”

Héctor was out of the apartment and storming down the street before he knew what he was doing. He knew _that_ voice, though he hadn’t heard it in years, and hearing it in conjunction with _that_ song…

He found himself hunched over the fountain in the middle of the plaza, his chest heaving, his breath hissing through gritted teeth. In the water below he could see his own expression, twisted and ugly with fury, and struck his hand against the surface.

“It’s _not his song_ ,” he snarled, striking the water again and again. “It’s _not_ his. _I_ wrote that. It’s for _her_ , it wasn’t _his_ to use—he could use any song he wanted, but _that song_ — _AGH_!”

Pain shot through his wrists, and he realized he’d slammed his fists into the rim of the marble bowl of fountain. Cradling his hands against his chest, he turned away, sitting with his back to it.

Pizzicato was sitting next to him on the rim of the fountain, and she gave a quiet whine. Sighing, he held out his arm to her, allowing her to climb up and onto his shoulder, finally resting on his cheekbone. “No more of this,” he whispered. “I… can’t play music like this anymore.”

She gave an alarmed _peep_ , and he eased her off of his face and into his hands. “No, no,” he murmured, stroking his thumb over her shell. “It won’t be forever. I’ll… I can still play at home. Just… no more busking.”

The look in her eyes told him she wasn’t sure about this, but she made no sign of disagreeing with him, instead gingerly licking his hand.

In spite of his words, however, and for the first time ever since he’d died, Héctor did not sing Remember Me that night. He only held his guitar and stared down at it in silence before setting it aside, and wordlessly slipping into bed.

 

* * *

 

 

The years passed on. Pizzicato was faithful in helping him find other jobs—usually odd jobs that he would stick with for a few months before moving on to something else. Though he’d done other work when he was a young man before he’d established himself as a musician, it had been some time since he’d done work other than playing songs.

It was hard. It was always hard, trying to find a place where he could be away from music, where he didn’t have to see merchandise showing the face of the musician that was rapidly gaining popularity, where he could be useful with _something_ that didn’t involve an instrument. But he managed. He had to.

His family was counting on him, wherever they were. He didn’t know anymore.

Oh, he still kept up trying to cross the bridge, but none of his attempts succeeded. He’d gotten caught a few times now, and the attendants were becoming familiar with him. Those who were new to the job were warned. But it never stopped him from trying.

Not even when his boss at a construction job confronted him, telling him he did not allow _criminals_ to work for him.

So he’d find another job. And another. And another. Pizzicato always seemed to know where to find new work, and it became second nature to follow her through the sprawling Land of the Dead. As popular as Ernesto got, the _alebrije_ somehow managed to find the streets where Héctor was least likely to encounter the man’s face or music.

But as much as they tried to avoid him, the bitterness never left Héctor’s heart. Something had gone wrong on the other side. Otherwise, why wouldn’t he be able to cross? Why wouldn’t Coco speak out against Ernesto’s singing her favorite song? No one had died, thank goodness—he would know if they had—but they weren’t putting his photo up. Why weren’t they putting his photo up? It had been so long. Ernesto would have _had_ to tell them by now, wouldn’t he? He _had_ to be keeping regular contact with them… Perhaps the photo had been lost, but even so…!

The thoughts plagued him every time he saw a record featuring his best friend’s face (now twenty years older—were those gray hairs?), every time he heard someone humming a few notes of “Poco Loco.” But Pizzicato did her best to keep him distracted. She led him to others he could talk to—some vendors who tolerated him, one or two musicians who shied away from “popular” music, a seamstress that would give him errands to run if he begged her enough—and sometimes brought him to quieter parts of the Land of the Dead, abandoned sectors overtaken by wild _alebrijes_ (which she was careful to keep him away from).

But come _Dia de Muertos_ , she would always reluctantly help him with his schemes. The plots were never terribly elaborate—after losing a few jobs to his crime record, he was trying to keep it low-key for now—but when they inevitably failed and he in turn failed to get away before he was caught, Pizzicato would keep him company in his holding cell.

_Dia de Muertos_ , 1942, felt the same as any other. He’d persuaded his friend Ceci to lend him a large hat that hid enough of his face to keep him from being immediately recognized. Pizzicato, meanwhile, was curled up in a ball in his pouch, keeping out of sight—the guards knew to look out for a midnight-blue bat _alebrije_. His plan this year was simple: get up to the gate, give them a fake name, and while they searched for him, make a run for it. If he was caught and, by some miracle, not recognized, he would just laugh and say he’d thought he’d been given the okay.

It was a long shot, but what else could he do?

As he stood in line, however, a strange sense of dread came over him. At first he’d thought it was merely the usual anxiety that came with attempting to cross, but it had never felt so _heavy_ on his bones before. Soon he found himself clutching the left side of his rib cage, feeling an ache that he couldn’t quite explain—it was almost the way he’d felt when he thought about his family, but more _physical_ , somehow, like… like…

The next thing he knew he was on the ground, Pizzicato was alternately licking and nipping at his face, and a crowd had formed around him. His bones felt strangely weak, his chest ached sharply, and his breathing came in hollow gasps.

“Hey! _Hey_! Call a doctor, this man just fainted!”

Had he? He wasn’t sure, but he was too dazed to protest as two guards carefully eased him off the ground. One of them gave him a hard look when his hat fell away, revealing his face, but the other only shook her head.

As the two women carried him off to who-knows-where, Pizzicato lighted on his chest, whining up at him.

_Something is wrong_ , he wanted to tell her, but he could only blink wearily. He didn’t know how, but he knew. _Something terrible happened._

 

* * *

 

 

The chairs lining the main interior of the Department of Family Reunions were not the most private place, but every other room in the building was occupied by families arguing with clerks over different issues, the newly-dead being oriented, and families being reunited for the first time in years. Fortunately few people spared Héctor a second glance as he sat slumped against his chair, a doctor looking him over, one of the guards who had carried him in standing nearby.

“It’s hard to tell these kinds of things without tells such as, you know, flesh, blood, beating hearts…” The doctor shook his head. “But physically, from what I can tell, he seems fine.”

“Good to know,” Héctor muttered, drawing in a deep breath as he tried to regain his senses. Pizzicato sat on his shoulder, and he managed to shakily pull his hand up to stroke her shell. _Good to know doctors are as useless as they’ve always been._

“You said he fainted?”

The guard nodded. “That’s what it looked like. Someone said he had his hand on his chest, then he just dropped.”

“I see. Could you please bring him some water?”

Frowning, the woman nodded, though she looked like she’d much rather go back to her job than run errands for someone else. She obeyed regardless, heading to another part of the building.

The doctor, meanwhile, took a seat next to Héctor, leaning in close. “ _Señor_ , I need to ask you some things.”

Héctor nodded. “ _¿Sí?_ ”

“Are you recently-dead?”

“No.”

“So if you haven’t been eating much, you’ve gotten used to that, right?”

It was true—most of his food went to Pizzicato nowadays, since she actually needed it. He did miss eating regularly, anyone would, but he didn’t _need_ to, so he could put up with it. He nodded.

“And if you haven’t been sleeping much, you’ve also gotten used to it?”

He nodded again.

“What happened before you collapsed?”

“I…” Héctor frowned, shakily moving his hand to his rib cage. “I felt like something… something had gone wrong, and my h—my chest began to ache.”

“And you felt nothing unusual in the hours prior to collapsing?”

“…No, not that I can remember.”

The doctor crossed his arms, tapping a finger against his sleeve. “Ruling those out, there’s… one thing that may have happened.” He looked up as the guard returned with a glass of water, which she handed off to Héctor.

Downing the glass, he felt some life (so to speak) return to him, and sat up a bit straighter, eying the man warily. “ _¿Sí?”_

“It doesn’t happen to everyone, but… what you described can happen when someone you were close to dies unexpectedly.”

The glass slipped out of his hand, shattering against the floor, and Héctor was struggling to his feet immediately. “No, no, Imelda—” he gasped, only for both the guard and the doctor to restrain him, holding him back against the seat. “NO! C-Coco…!”

“You’re still weak, _señor_ , wait until it passes,” the doctor said. He winced as Pizzicato flew at him, waving her off.

“B-but—!”

“ _Señor_ , we are in the Department of Family Reunions,” the guard said as she gripped his shoulders. “If you give me a moment, I can confirm for you if any of your family has just died.”

His entire body was shaking and he was rapidly growing numb, but he nodded dumbly. The guard didn’t need to ask his name, and, once she was sure he would stay put, hurried over to the nearest clerk.

Holding out his hand, he waited for Pizzicato to land on it before clutching her to his chest, curling around her. “I-I don’t want to see them like this,” he whispered to her as she licked his hand. “Not like this.”

The doctor, meanwhile, silently placed a hand on his shoulder, watching him in sympathy.

It was a short eternity before the guard hurried back, looking antsy. “No, Señor Rivera, none of your family has died,” she said quickly, before hurrying off again.

A weight lifted off of his chest, and he breathed out a deep sigh as the feeling came back to his bones. “ _Ay, gracias a Dios_ ,” he breathed, falling limply against the back of his chair. “So… what happened, exactly?”

“Well, uh.” The doctor scratched the back of his skull awkwardly. “The thing is, it could have been someone other than family. Do you have any _friends_ that you were very close to?”

Héctor thought it over for half a second, and once again, any calmness he felt was quickly torn away from him _._ “No,” he gasped, and scrambled out of his seat, Pizzicato taking to the air over his head. “ _Ernesto_!”

To his surprise, all the skeletons in the desks around him were chattering excitedly, completely unaware of his distress. “Oh, that’s what I thought!” a clerk nearby said before twisting around to talk to the man in the desk behind hers. “Is that what your records say—?”

“The great Ernesto de la Cruz is here—?!”

“ _Shh, shh,_ we’re not supposed to be talking about this—”

Bracing himself against the nearest desk, Héctor stared at the clerk desperately. “ _Señora_ , please, has Ernesto died? I—I need to talk to him—”

A grin lit up her features, to his consternation, and she laughed. “You and everyone else, _señor_!” Seeing his pain-stricken face, however, she calmed herself, clearing her throat. “In all seriousness, unless you are his family or he calls for you, I’m afraid you cannot visit the newly dead.”

“He _is_ my family, though!” Héctor cried. “We were practically brothers!”

“Um… sure.” She quirked a brow bone, then shook her head. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

“But—”

“ _Señor!_ ”

Turning around, he found the doctor stomping up to him, fuming. “I’m sorry you’ve been unwell, but using your condition to try to get to a newly-dead celebrity?”

Ay Dios, _not this again._ “Y-you don’t understand—Ernesto really _is_ my friend. We’ve been friends for—”

“If that is true, then he will call for you,” the clerk interrupted, “and we will send a summons to your place of residence.”

“I—!”

Pizzicato landed on his cheekbone and nipped it lightly, causing him to wince. “F-fine, okay,” he stammered, and stepped back from the desk. “ _Lo siento_.” He still felt a little dazed, but he could at least walk now.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, _señor_ ,” the doctor said, the anger gone from his voice, “but the best thing for you to do now is to go home and rest. Like they said, if this man is indeed your friend as you said, he will call for you.”

With a tired sigh, Héctor trudged out of the building, trying to ignore the excited buzz of conversation around him as he attempted to sort out the confused buzz in his head. _Ernesto… died? He died unexpectedly?_ His thoughts toward his friend had become increasingly… conflicted, to say the least, but no matter what saddened, betrayed thoughts would flit through his mind, he would never, ever wish an early death on him.

Relying on nudges from Pizzicato, he managed to find his way back home—a smaller, shabbier two-room apartment he’d moved into some years back in an effort to save money. He let himself collapse down into his chair, and did not get up. He felt the soft weight of Pizzicato’s body and wings atop his head, and said nothing.

Ernesto did not call for him.

 

* * *

 

 

It was, he supposed, a fool’s errand to try to seek a private audience with a celebrity.

In spite of the Department of Family Reunions’ initial efforts of keeping the matter quiet, news of Ernesto’s death spread like wildfire. By the end of _Dia de Muertos_ , the entire Land of the Dead knew about it.

Everyone and their mother sought audience with the man, from swooning fans to nosy reporters to people claiming to be long-lost family. However, the Land of the Dead had developed a system for dealing with dead celebrities: trained bodyguards were assigned to them the moment they stepped into the afterlife in order to keep them safe while they adjusted to being dead. Then, if they so chose, they could continue to employ the guards with their own money. On top of that, they were given clothing to disguise their appearance in order to keep them from being mobbed by fans while they moved to their new residence.

This, of course, was the case for Ernesto, making him very, very difficult to find.

Initially.

But if Héctor knew Ernesto—assuming he hadn’t changed too much in the past twenty-one years—Ernesto would not stay hidden for long. Never one to resist the cheers of the crowd, Ernesto had rapidly recovered from his untimely death, and was already going to start making appearances for his fans.

The problem was, these events cost money, something Héctor was rapidly finding more and more difficult to come by.

“ _Por favor_ ,” he said, pressing his hands together and smiling hopefully as he faced Ceci, who was rubbing her forehead. “If you could just lend me a _bit_ of money, I _swear_ I’ll pay you back!”

“Héctor, when have you _ever_ brought anything back?” she snapped. “You lost that expensive hat I lent you—”

“I _fainted_!”

“And that dress before that, and you never paid me back for those—”

“Ceci, _please_!”

“What’s it for _this_ time, anyway? _Dia de Muertos_ was a month ago.”

“Ah, well… I wanted t-to… buy a bat house for Pizzicato before they sold out—”

Pizzicato let out a sharp _peep_ from his shoulder, and Ceci stared at him deadpan. “ _Héctor._ ”

“That was a lie!” He flinched back, holding up his hands, his grin taking on a more desperate edge. “Sorry! It’s—okay, it’s for a ticket to get into the de la Cruz event.”

Rolling her eyes dramatically, Ceci stood from her seat and marched over to the other side of the room.

“It’s for a good cause!” Héctor cried, scrambling after her. “I promise!”

“Going to see a celebrity is _not_ a good cause,” the seamstress grumbled, rifling through some boxes on the far side of her apartment. “I can understand wanting to see your family, but _this_ —”

Not this again, he didn’t have _time_ to explain—not that she would believe him, anyway. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his false grin falling. “ _Please_. It’s important, Ceci, _please_.”

The seamstress turned to look at him, eying him up and down. Finally her eyes met his own, and she sighed, shrugging his hand off of her shoulder. “ _Fine_. But this is the _last_ time I lend you money, Héctor.”

 

* * *

 

 

To his surprise, the ticket was cheaper than he’d expected, sold to him by some old man who’d had to cancel last minute. Perhaps Ernesto had been feeling generous, since this was his first public appearance since he’d died. Whatever the case, it didn’t matter. Héctor was in high spirits as he rushed off to the building where the concert was to be held. He was already very late—it had taken him longer than he’d thought to get from the man who sold him the ticket to the concert hall—but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t there for a concert.

He ran over the plan in his head: get inside, wait for the concert to end (assuming it hadn’t already), slip through the crowd and… talk with him? In public? Okay, so he hadn’t thought that part through, but it didn’t matter—the most important thing was getting to that point in the first place.

Ticket in hand and Pizzicato safely hiding in his inner breast pocket, Héctor stumbled up to the entrance, dusting himself off (his old charro suit had seen better days, but it was the best outfit he owned). The two bouncers stood in front of the doorway, the only obstacles between him and Ernesto, but they were easily overcome.

Or so he thought.

“What’s this?”

Héctor blinked, holding out his ticket closer to them. “Th-this… this is my ticket to the event?” His voice heightened, and he swallowed dryly. “I… I didn’t steal it, I promise.”

Pizzicato jabbed a wing into one of his ribs.

One bouncer took the ticket from him, turning it this way and that. “This is counterfeit.”

…Oh. _That’s_ why it was so cheap. And now that he watched the guard turn it over, it _did_ look rather flimsy. Héctor’s non-existent stomach sank, and he rubbed his right wrist with his left hand. “ _Lo siento_ —I promise, I had no idea,” he said, feeling very small and very stupid. “But the thing is… I… I know Ernesto.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“I do! My name is Héctor Rivera. We’ve been friends since… since forever. He’ll know me, if you mention my name to him. Please?” He pressed his hands together, trying to keep a hopeful grin on his face.

“Ernesto has never mentioned a Héctor Rivera,” one of the bouncers said, crossing his arms.

Héctor jerked back, the words feeling like a blow to his chest, but he couldn’t back down now. “Perhaps h-he wanted to keep it private? My death probably still upsets him… But—trust me, I _do_ know him. He’s like a brother to me. Just… let him know I’m here, please?”

Once again the bouncers eyed each other, then turned away from him, muttering something or other. Finally one of them entered the building while the other moved to the center of the building’s entrance, covering for the other man. “He’ll check.”

With a relieved sigh, Héctor relaxed his frame. “ _Gracias_ ,” he said, with all sincerity.

It was several moments (during which Héctor attempted to make small talk with the other man, only to get jabbed by Pizzicato every time) before the other bouncer returned. Héctor looked up at him with a smile, which quickly faded upon seeing the man’s frown.

“Señor de la Cruz does not know anything about a man named Héctor Rivera.”

Héctor staggered back, jaw quite literally dropping to the ground. Frantically he snatched it up to reattach it before staring at the men in horror. “Wh-wh- _what_?! That’s—that _can’t_ be right! We were best friends! _¡Hermanos!_ I wrote his _songs_!”

Pizzicato nipped his ribs, but it was too late—that last comment already seemed to strike a nerve with the bouncers, who took a step forward. “ _Señor_ ,” one of them began, “I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

“It’s true! I’m not lying!” Héctor grit his teeth, partially in anger and partially because Pizzicato was still biting him, but he wasn’t going to stop—he _couldn’t_. “Ernesto is my _friend_! I’ve known him forever—he and Imelda and I used to play together when we were kids, he watched my Coco when Imelda and I would go out—”

“ _Señor_.”

“We sang together! Traveled! Drank! We shared a bed when we couldn’t afford better— _agh_!” His hand went to his chest as Pizzicato bit a rib probably harder than she’d meant. With a frustrated growl, he reached into his pocket, grabbing the _alebrije_ and throwing her aside. “ _¡Callate!_ ” he hissed as her wings caught the air, and she fluttered over his head.

“ _Señor_ , we will not ask you again. Please leave immediately.”

“ _No_!” he cried, his voice heightening in rage and pain. “I won’t—not until he hears me out, not until he tells me how Imelda is doing, what’s happened to my Coco, why she was okay with him using our song—”

_Peep! PEEP!_

With a snarl he swiped a hand at the bat, who fluttered out of the way, and stormed closer to the guards. No, he probably wasn’t thinking, and no, he really did not care at this point. ”I’m going to find out what he—”

The bouncers’ hands were on his shoulders, and he stiffened as they glared down at him. “Señor de la Cruz would not appreciate people barging in uninvited, nor would he appreciate anyone spreading _lies_.”

“I am _not lying_!” he cried, struggling against their grip. “Let me—” The men’s grip tightened against his shoulders, and he froze. “Wh-what are you doing? Let me go—”

One of the bouncers obeyed. The other did not, instead grabbing onto Héctor with both hands, easily lifting him off the ground.

“Wait, wait wait, no, wait, _por favor_ , let me go!” All thoughts of trying to get into the concert hall fled his mind, which was now filled with panic as he struggled to get away. “Wait, _please_!”

Whatever the bouncer was planning to do with him, however, he didn’t get the chance as an ear-piercing _SCREECH_ rang through the air. The man nearly dropped Héctor as he went to cover his ears, and the other man and Héctor did the same. While they were stunned, something dove at them, landing directly on the first man’s head, and biting it.

The bouncer _did_ drop Héctor that time, and Héctor scrambled on all fours to get away, his ears still ringing. When he looked over his shoulder, he found Pizzicato repeatedly biting the man in the skull. The other bouncer swung a punch at her, only for her to leap away, causing him to knock his friend’s head clean off his shoulders. A grin split Héctor’s face, and he let out a laugh, quickly getting back to his feet and rushing toward the building’s entrance. It was the perfect distraction—he easily passed them, already bolting through the doors and into the deserted lobby (even the workers couldn’t resist the opportunity to meet Ernesto, it seemed).

_SCREECH—!_

The sound made him stop dead—it wasn’t a threatening sound like before, but a pained noise that heightened into a yelp. Spinning around, his stomach dropped to the floor at the sight he beheld.

One of the bouncers had gotten hold of Pizzicato, and was tugging forcibly on her wings while she struggled in his grasp. The other man, who had finally gotten his head back on, snatched her away from the other bouncer, and squeezed.

_Crunch._

With a choked cry, Héctor stumbled out of the building just as the bouncer tossed the limp form off to the side. “No, no no no no…!” He passed the men, who only stared at him coolly as he ran up to the little midnight-blue lump in the street. Falling to his knees, he scooped her up to take a closer look. “No, no, Pizzicato, no…!”

Her wings hung limply off either side of his hands, while her ear-wings were shut tight and pinned to either side of her head. Her head was lowered, and her eyes were closed. While her wings seemed okay, the sound had clearly come from her shell, the back of which was nearly caved in, several nasty cracks running through it. There was no blood, but the cracks glowed faintly cyan, standing sharply against the midnight blue shell.

A memory returned to him—one that made him feel sick. One morning, ages ago, he and Ernesto had been wandering around the outskirts of Santa Cecilia, and had come across a dead armadillo. Its shell had been cracked and caved in down the middle, and Ernesto had guessed a horse-drawn cart must have run over it during the night.

Minus the blood, Pizzicato didn’t look much different at the moment.

Spitting a curse at the bouncers, who made no efforts to approach him, he hurried away to get the _alebrije_ as far from those terrible men as possible. Faintly he wondered if there was anyone who could help him—a vet of some sort, perhaps?—but he soon realized he wouldn’t have the money to cover any expenses even if there were. Would she even _survive_? Could _alebrijes_ die?

Héctor stumbled around a corner, finally stopping by a street light to get a better look at Pizzicato. He almost reached out to touch her shell, but stopped himself. “Pizzicato…” he whispered. His breaths came quick and short. He was too panicked even to weep. Holding her close, he gently rubbed a thumb over her head. “ _Lo siento_ , I should have listened to you! Th-this didn’t have to happen…”

And yet it did happen. He’d let his emotions get the best of him, and his _alebrije_ was the one to pay for it.

“Say something, _por favor_?” he muttered, hoping for some response, _anything_. “I’ll… I’ll listen to you, next time. I’ll never ignore you again.” Leaning back against a nearby wall, he slid into a seated position, curling his body around hers. “Please… I promise.”

A moment later, a little flick of a neon green tongue swiped against his hand. And Héctor let out a quiet laugh, even as the tears rolled down his face.

“I-I _will_ listen, Pizzicato… I promise.”


	5. Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor loses a lot of things, only to gain something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Sorry for the late chapter--I'd meant to get this posted earlier, but Mother's Day Weekend is a busy time! Next (and final) chapter will probably be late as well because I've had a lot going on lately. @__@; Not TOO late though, hopefully.
> 
> Thanks to Jaywings and Tomatosoupful for beta reading!

It took less than a week for Pizzicato to recover from her injury. For Héctor, it felt like much, much longer as he cared for her, more than he ever had to before.

In their little apartment, the bat lay mostly still on the threadbare blanket his mother had made so many years ago. While normally he would merely provide the _alebrije_ with food when he could (if he couldn’t, she would leave to find food on her own), for several days he had to bring her everything she needed, as she could not fly with a broken shell. He had to wash and clean up after her a few times a day, making sure nothing got into her shell to infect it (assuming she could get sick, anyway). When he could do nothing else for her, he would play his guitar and sing, which seemed to lift her spirits.

At one point he sneaked over to Cecilia’s place to ~~steal~~ _borrow_ a tube of strong glue (that he would absolutely bring back someday), which he used to mend the broken shards of her shell. It was difficult work, and to his dismay he realized a piece was missing, probably lost somewhere in the many streets between the concert hall and his apartment.

As it turned out, however, he hadn’t needed to go to those lengths to mend the _alebrije_ , as after the first few days she rapidly recovered on her own. The shell sealed by itself, no trace of the glowing cyan cracks visible, and the glue Héctor had used flaked off on its own. It was another day or so before she was able to fly again, and then it was like she’d never been injured at all.

“It will be better, now,” Héctor said to her, as she sat on his shoulder and licked the side of his jaw. “I won’t get you in trouble again.”

But trouble seemed to have a way of finding them anyway. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Pizzicato led him from place to place once again, now with more energy than ever, and yet Héctor found himself faced with rejection after rejection.

“Sorry, _señor_ , we… don’t need any new employees right now,” one shopkeeper said, hurriedly removing a “help wanted” sign.

Others were less subtle. “You’re that nut who gets arrested at the bridge every year, aren’t you? We don’t need someone with your reputation working here.”

And then there was the strange insult he seemed to be getting more and more often: “Get out! I ain’t hiring some _dusty-boned_ criminal!”

As the door slammed in his face, Héctor and Pizzicato exchanged glances. “D… dusty-boned?” he repeated, and the _alebrije_ whined.

Héctor hadn’t kept a mirror in his apartment in some time; he’d been selling what he could just to pay rent. What did he need a mirror for, anyway, when he could just take off his wig to look it over to make sure his hair looked passable? But as he glanced around at passersby, then stared down at his own hands, he couldn’t help but noticing they seemed to be a bit… _darker_ than usual. The bones had an almost yellow-gray tint to them, rather than the shiny white he often observed among others.

Had they _always_ looked that way?

Pizzicato gave him no time to dwell on it, only urging him on to the next shop.

Again and again the bat led him back into town to job-hunt, but each try ended in failure, and Pizzicato was growing frantic. She spent less time resting on his shoulder or the side of his face, and more time fluttering anxiously over his head. “ _Shh, cálmese,_ ” Héctor murmured, holding out a piece of a banana for her (that he may or may not have pilfered from a fruit cart). She reluctantly accepted the food, only to go back to fluttering in the air. “Let’s stop by home for a minute.”

_Peep…_

They both knew very well what that phrase actually meant. As Pizzicato led him back to the apartment, Héctor ran over a mental checklist of items still in his possession. He’d sold all of his silverware, his flatware (except the one plate he used to feed Pizzicato), most of his spare outfits… At one point he’d sold his bed and resorted to sleeping on his chair, only to sell that, too. At least he still had the blanket his mother had made. …And his guitar.

He could still remember sitting with his mamá on the couch in their apartment, only a few weeks after he’d died. He’d just been telling her a story about his Imelda and his Coco, only to stammer into silence at the sharp ache in his heart, reminding him of how much he missed them. It had been four months since he’d seen them at that point—what seemed like an impossibly long time ago, back then—and he’d found himself weeping in his mother’s arms.

Until his papá had marched into the room, and shoved a brand new guitar into his hands.

_“This will give you something to do other than crying,”_ he’d said, not unkindly. _“Don’t let it go to waste.”_

Héctor stared down at the instrument, sitting in its open case. It may have been old, but he’d kept it as best as he could over the years, replacing the strings when he needed, keeping it tuned. But since Pizzicato had recovered, he had barely touched it.

_PEEP!_

The bat fluttered down, landing awkwardly atop the instrument, its strings creaking under her light weight as she covered as much of it as she could with her wings.

Leaning back on his heels, Héctor sighed. “Pizzicato…”

She whined plaintively, ear-wings folding.

“Rent is due tomorrow.”

Using the claws on her wings, she plucked at the strings a few times, and his throat suddenly hurt.

“I can’t,” he choked. “I can’t do it. You know what they’ll ask me to play.”

She whined again, quieter this time. And he knew—he knew the difference between her _needing_ him to do something, and her _wanting_ him to do something.

“…Don’t let it go to waste,” he said, echoing his father’s words.

With a final whimper, Pizzicato backed off of the guitar, and climbed off of the case. Héctor shut it and eased it onto his shoulder, briefly wondering at how much heavier it felt. But wordlessly he rose to his feet, and carried it out of the apartment.

For a moment he wondered if his _alebrije_ would stay behind, but instead she fluttered on ahead, and he followed as she led him down several streets, out past the town, onto a trolley he hopped aboard as it was leaving its station. Eventually she took him up to a young woman—recently dead, younger than himself, looking just as lost and hopeless as he had felt all those years ago—wearing the clothes of a mariachi.

While the money she gave him would soon leave his hands again, he wouldn’t forget the gleam in the woman’s eyes as he handed the guitar over, a smile lighting her too-young features. She thanked him profusely, and he told her about a nearby plaza with a lovely fountain where she would find a good crowd, or maybe even a band to join.

Héctor and Pizzicato watched her leave with his papá’s guitar.

And that was that.

 

* * *

 

The money only lasted him until next rent, but Héctor would not allow himself to regret what he’d done. Not even when the landlord showed up at his door a month later, demanding money that he did not have.

“I can wash dishes,” he said, a crooked, desperate smile splitting his face. “I’m really good at that.”

“This isn’t a restaurant, _idiota_!” the landlord snarled, and Héctor felt very small in spite of the older man’s shorter stature.

“I can clean! I-I’ve done that before—”

“I’m looking for _rent_ , not a maid!”

“I can… watch your _alebrije_ for you? I’ve got experience—”

“I don’t _have_ an _alebrije_ ,” the man muttered, only to pause, looking Héctor up and down before peering into the apartment. “Do _you_?”

Pizzicato shifted in his pouch. Héctor swallowed.

“Do you have the money or not, Rivera?”

“…No.”

“Then get out.”

With a shuddering sigh, Héctor grabbed his mother’s blanket, within which were his only remaining possessions—one last outfit, Pizzicato’s plate, and a few other knick-knacks he couldn’t manage to sell. He did not look back at his landlord as he trudged out of the apartment.

At least, not until Pizzicato clambered out of his pouch and zipped behind him. There was an angry cry from the landlord, and then she was flying up ahead, carrying a mop of graying hair in her feet. The landlord shoved him aside, one hand over his now-bald skull, the other shaking in a fist as he chased after the bat.

Startled, Héctor scrambled after them, watching in bewilderment as Pizzicato finally dropped the wig atop a car. The driver, taking no notice, started the engine and began to drive off, only moving faster when the landlord began chasing the vehicle.

Finally the man slowed to a stop, staring helplessly as the car drove away, only to spin around and shoot Héctor a glare. “YOU!”

Héctor held up a finger, thought for a moment about anything he could possibly say to that, and spun around, bolting down the street, Pizzicato fluttering after him. In spite of how angry the man was, Héctor couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation as he fled.

“I knew you were hiding something!” the man cried as he gave chase.

Shrugging, he grinned up at Pizzicato. “No point in hiding it now, eh, _amiga_?”

_Peep!_

“Get back here you—you idiot! You _cabrón_!”

Still he laughed, knowing the old man would never catch up. Dying young, terrible as it was, had its advantages, and he still had all the energy of a twenty-one-year-old. Pizzicato did a loop-around, flying behind him, and he heard the man cry out again. She hadn’t hurt him—probably only startled him—but Héctor didn’t turn around to check. He spotted the edge of the tower up ahead and a pole sticking up from the next street under, and leaped, grabbing onto it and sliding down.

Upon landing, he looked back up, finding Pizzicato following behind. His former landlord, huffing and puffing, leaned over the ledge, glaring down at him. “You’ll pay for that!” he gasped, slamming his fist down. “I’ll make sure you never get a job, Héctor Rivera!”

“ _Pshaw_. I was never gonna get another one anyway, _ese_!” Héctor shot back, and turned away, marching down the street as though nothing had happened.

Soon Pizzicato alighted on the side of his head, licking his cheekbone, and he stopped, freezing as his own words sank in.

“I’m… never getting another job,” he repeated, and slumped against the nearest wall.

 

* * *

 

Homelessness was something Héctor had found himself skirting at least a few times before.

Back when he was alive and some time after his parents had died, their old house had caught fire (he’d left a candle burning after stepping out), taking with it everything but his guitar and the clothes on his back. He’d thought that would be it, after that, but Ernesto had taken him under his wing. His friend had been looking for an excuse to move out of his parents’ house anyway, and they’d taken up residence in a small house for a few years before Héctor got married.

A few times when he was on the road with Ernesto, they had been unable to find a place to stay, and found themselves sleeping out on the street. It was never a pleasant experience (especially when it nearly got them robbed at one point), but Ernesto had always used it to remind him that at least they were earning money so his family back home wouldn’t have to experience this. It had been one of the things that kept him going on that overly-extended tour—the tour that never ended until his life did.

He had vowed that he would always help provide for Imelda and Coco, even now in the afterlife. Yet just as he had in life, Héctor had failed once again. When Imelda finally passed on, she wouldn’t have even an apartment waiting for her on the other side. She would have just her stupid husband, who couldn’t even manage to hold a job.

Héctor sat, his feet dangling off the edge of the tower, looking out across the vast Land of the Dead. All those towers, all those streets and buildings, and yet none of them had a place where he could work. It felt surreal, as he clutched the sack containing his only remaining possessions closer to himself.

“What do we do now, Pizzicato?” he said, slumping over the bundled-up blanket.

The _alebrije_ sat atop his head silently, then leaped off with a _buzz-flap_.

Without another thought he rose to follow her, slinging his sack over his shoulder. He had no idea where she could possibly take him now, and he was almost afraid to find out. Perhaps she knew of some distant family he still had here (but then why wouldn’t she have led him to them earlier?), or even to Imelda’s family, if they still existed, or maybe in some corner of the underworld there really _was_ a job that would still take him. He couldn’t ask, regardless.

On and on she led him down the endlessly spiraling streets, and Héctor eventually noticed that they were moving farther down on the tower. The buildings got older the lower they went, and Pizzicato took him through weaving paths around the shadier areas, full of dilapidated buildings. Once they were out of that area, she looped around back, landing on his shoulder as he came to a stop at the top of a massive stone structure. Steep, crumbling stone steps led downward, though it looked like a rickety wooden stairway had been built overtop them recently. At the foot of the structure was an ancient stone wall, beyond which lay… the shanties.

He’d heard of this place.

It was always spoken of with a whisper and a side-glance, unfit for decent talk. It was said to be full of thieves, murderers, and even worse criminals—people whose family wouldn’t take them back in, and for a good reason. After all, there were skeletons with yellowed bones who still had family who would take care of them on this side of the bridge. Héctor could certainly attest to that, as it had been the case for his own parents. But if a yellow-boned skeleton had to move down _there_ , well… it was because they were one of _those_ people.

Héctor took a step back. “No, no,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I-I’m not… I’m not like that, Pizzicato.”

With a quiet _peep_ , the bat fluttered up ahead, hovered over the stairs, and turned to look at him expectantly.

“No, I’m not going there. I’m not—” He swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… that’s where… no. _No_.” And he turned around, marching away. Even just being _near_ the place gave him the creeps.

With a loud _buzz-flap_ , Pizzicato was right in his face, and he nearly fell over backwards. “Wh— _hey_!” he cried. “ _¡Basta!_ I’m not doing this, Pizzicato!”

The bat gave a shrill _PEEP_ , flapping her wings even faster as she hovered in place, her golden eyes narrowed.

He nearly raised his voice at her, only to remember what happened the last time he did that. Sighing, he rubbed his face with his free hand. “I don’t think you understand the implications of this, _amiga_ ,” he said softly before looking up at her again, pleading. “I don’t belong there. That’s where… where people who have done bad things go. People whose families _won’t_ remember them.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Imelda still remembers me. My Coco still remembers me. They’re still waiting to see me again someday.”

As she listened, Pizzicato’s expression softened, but she still flew in place, still blocking his path.

“Pizzicato… they won’t _find_ me there,” Héctor went on. “Or if they did, they… they would think I was some… _criminal_ , or scoundrel, or… okay, maybe I have done _some_ things, but never for a bad reason! You _know_ that! I…”

He didn’t realize she’d moved until she landed on the side of his face, her head resting on his cheekbone. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he stared down at the ground, down at his worn shoes. A toe on his left foot poked through a hole in the leather.

“There has to be something else,” he choked out. “You have to take me somewhere else. _Please_ , take me anywhere else.”

Pizzicato whined, licking the side of his face, and with a growl he pulled her away, holding her out in front of him.

“ _Stop it_!” he cried, and held his palm out flat, wanting her to fly off of it and lead him away from this terrible place. “I can’t go here! I am not being _forgotten_!”

“Your bones say otherwise.”

With a yelp, Héctor staggered off to the side, away from the source of the voice. He blinked, only just now realizing that there was a skeleton lurking in the shadow of a nearby pillar, eying him from the darkness. How long had he been there?

Héctor’s breathing quickened, but he tried to keep his breaths shallow, hoping it wasn’t too obvious how panicked he was. For a brief moment he wondered how effective his sack would be as a weapon, or if he should just bolt immediately. “Wh… who are you?”

The man cocked his head and stepped out from the shadow, an uneven grin splitting his face. “Oh, probably one of the criminals or scoundrels you were just talking about,” he replied, and Héctor flinched.

The first thing he noticed was that the man had a crack across the bottom of his right eye socket, which made Héctor immediately recoil. Strangely, though, the man’s bones were lighter than his own—not white, by any means, but they didn’t quite have the yellow tint to them yet. He stood tall, maybe only a hair shorter than Héctor, and looked like he may have been at least a decade or more older than Héctor when he’d died. A large sombrero hung around the back of his neck, and, to Héctor’s surprise, a guitar was strapped to his shoulders. Come to think of it, he’d probably passed a man like that before, but wouldn’t have noticed the greyed bones or the crack in his face if he had been wearing that enormous hat.

The thought that he had passed unknowingly by a dangerous man—one he was now in the presence of—made him shudder, and he found his legs starting to shake.

“What’s the matter?” the man asked with a snort, scratching his beard. “Think I’ll rob you of the alarm clock and undergarments you’re keeping in that sack on your shoulder?”

Immediately Héctor took a step back and to the side, putting more distance between his only possessions and this strange man. “I-I don’t want trouble,” he muttered.

The man took a sudden step forward, eyes narrowed and smile twisting into a snarl. “Then _don’t_ bring trouble to _us_!” he growled, and Héctor staggered backward, his bones trembling. “We have a hard enough time out here without you people spreadin’ lies about how we’re all murderers and rapists and—”

A faint _bow! bow!_ sounded out in the distance, and the man’s features reluctantly softened as he took a step back. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing around the crack in his eye. “Was a hard day playin’ for tips up there.”

Héctor said nothing, too terrified to move. His eyes darted down to Pizzicato, who was sitting calmly in his hand and looking off in the distance.

“Also, probably not the best idea to be arguing with your _alebrije_ there, eh?” the man said, now covering his bad eye with his hand as he looked down at the bat.

With a surge of panic and anger, Héctor closed his hand around Pizzicato, glaring at the man. “Y-yeah, and what would you know?” he retorted, wishing his voice would stop shaking.

Sliding his hand off of his face, the man stared at him for a moment before glancing off to the side, whistling. Shortly after, an overly-loud insectoid buzzing noise came closer and closer before what looked like an orange-and-blue fox zipped up to him. It bore four long wings like a dragonfly’s, and ears that were bigger than the rest of its body.

…Was that… _his_ _alebrije_?

Pizzicato struggled in his hand, breaking him out of his stunned trance. He opened his hand, and the bat fluttered up to the fox with a friendly _peep_. The fox barked once, and the two stared at each other for a moment.

Without warning, Pizzicato curled up into a ball and dropped to the ground, and the fox landed next to her. Héctor cried out in worry, but she simply rolled past him, bouncing down the rickety stairs, the fox following after.

“Wh—Pizzicato! Wh-what are you—?!” He looked helplessly from his _alebrije_ to the man standing nearby, but the man only shrugged, walking down the stairs at a comfortable pace. Not wanting to leave his only companion in a strange, dangerous place, Héctor hesitantly followed. The stairs creaked beneath him, and he found himself frantically looking from the creaking wood beneath him to the man that kept a few steps in front of him.

The man glanced over his shoulder, huffing out a laugh. “Nice of you to join us.”

“I-I’m not—” Héctor gritted his teeth. “I’m just bringing her back.”

“Sure.”

They continued to descend the steps in silence. Pizzicato was already at the bottom, rolling around in circles as the fox playfully batted at her.

“…I really am sorry for that,” the man said, and turned around to look at him fully, shame painting his expression. “Uh… wind… knocked off my hat, while I was playing.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m fine until they see my face. It’s… hard, when you look like… a…”

“…a dusty-boned criminal,” Héctor finished, shoulders slumping.

The man studied his face and nodded slowly. “You know that one, then.”

He gave a short nod, not meeting the man’s gaze. “I’m not a criminal.”

“Neither am I. Doesn’t change the way they think any.”

Héctor released a shuddering breath as he eased himself down the last several steep steps to the bottom. Pizzicato was still rolling around, and he crouched down, scooping her up. “Stop that, you’ll make yourself dizzy,” he muttered, brushing the dirt off of her smooth shell. She uncoiled in his hands, looking up at him before turning to look at the stone gates before them, and he followed her gaze.

An enormous mural adorned the ancient stone, depicting skeletons with wings of _cempasúchil_ , the petals falling as they flew by (or fell?) with mournful expressions. In faded script above was written the words, “ _Los Olvidados_.” _The Forgotten._

“That’s not what I am,” he found himself saying, only to jump back when the other man came into his field of vision with a skeptical look.

“Then why’d that _alebrije_ lead you here?” he asked plainly.

Héctor stared back down at Pizzicato, as though expecting her to provide an explanation. Before he or his _alebrije_ could say anything, the man was already heading through the gates. There was a boardwalk, roughly the same quality as the rickety stairs he’d just come down, suspended over murky water and branching out to what looked like several shanties. The man was walking over this boardwalk with the same ease Héctor would have had walking down a familiar road, his winged fox _alebrije_ buzzing after him.

“ _Hola_ , Primo Lorenzo!” came a friendly voice from within the town. “Good to see you back!”

“Ey, Manuel. _¿Qué onda?_ ”

_Primo_? Had he heard that right? Staring down at Pizzicato, he gave her a perplexed look. “I thought… they didn’t _have_ family,” he murmured, and found himself creeping closer to the gates, trying to get a better look at the town.

Much like the main towers of the rest of the Land of the Dead, some of the houses here seemed to be built on top of each other. If it looked precarious in the higher levels of the towers, it looked doubly— _triply_ so here, and Héctor nearly expected to see one of the creaking wooden structures toppling into the water below. But what stood out even more than the houses was the people within and around them—many of them in shabby clothing, some of them bearing broken bones or missing them altogether, and all of them with varying degrees of gray-yellow complexions.

But… they didn’t _look_ like criminals. Many were older skeletons, but even the younger ones seemed cheerful and (mostly) pleasant, rather than brooding and shady.

“So then what—oh! You make a friend, there?”

Héctor jumped to find the first man—Lorenzo, apparently—and Manuel staring at him, the latter with great interest. He’d been so engrossed in looking at the town that he hadn’t realized he’d walked through the gate.

“He’s new,” Lorenzo said, with a knowing glance at Manuel.

“Aaah…” Manuel cocked a brow-bone. “ _New_ , eh?”

“Er, no, _lo siento_ ,” Héctor said, holding up his hands and taking a step back. Pizzicato fluttered into the air beside him, and he waved in her direction. “My, uh, _alebrije_ flew—er, rolled off, and I was just coming down to get her.”

“Your _alebrije_ , huh?” Manuel cast a glance at the bat, and Héctor felt unsettled at how the man’s eyes didn’t line up properly, one eye slightly skewed outward. “You followed her here?”

“ _Yes_ , and, now that I’ve caught up with her, we’ll be, uh, stepping out.” With that he hurriedly spun around and marched back toward the gates, only to falter when he noticed Pizzicato wasn’t following. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing her hovering between Manuel and Lorenzo, and winced. “Pizzicato!” he hissed, waving her over.

_Peep_. She flew in a loop, ending it slightly farther back. The two men nearby chuckled, and to Héctor’s dismay, a few others were now watching him.

“Uh… I… _un momento_.” Biting his lip, he set down his bundle, trying to subtly glance back at the other souls nearby to make sure they wouldn’t try to swipe it while he stepped away. He took a step back from the sack, then looked back at Pizzicato. “Come on, we need to leave now.”

_Peep!_ Another loop, and she wound up slightly farther back. By this point some of the other souls in the town had stepped closer, clearly amused by the spectacle.

Héctor crept closer to the bat, hoping she didn’t notice he was preparing to grab at her. “We can play _later_ , Pizzicato. Right now it’s time to leave.”

To his relief, the bat did not move farther away this time, still hovering in place and watching him with a cocked head. Good. Now if he could just…

Once he was close enough, he lunged forward, swinging his arm out to grab her. The _alebrije_ darted away at the last moment, and he felt the frustration only for a split second before a loud _CRACK_ sounded beneath him.

He realized, too late, what had happened, and pitched forward into the murky water with the rotten board he’d stepped on the edge of.

Finding himself submerged, he began to panic, gasping and taking in water. He coughed and flailed, struggling to find the surface, and yelped when he felt something grab his shoulders. A moment later, he found himself being hauled out of the water by two souls he did not recognize, both of them laughing as they set him on the boardwalk.

“How’s that for an introduction to Shantytown? Ha!” one of them chuckled, thumping him roughly on the back as he spat out muddy water.

“That’s some tricky _alebrije_ you got there, _primo_!”

_Peep!_

“ _Ugh_!” he managed to cry between coughs, glaring up at the bat, who he _swore_ was now grinning at him as she hovered nearby. “‘Tricky’ is one way to— _what_?!” And he coughed again, thumping his chest and clearing his throat. He _had_ to have heard that wrong.

“You okay, _primo_?”

There it was again. “Ah, eh… no, uh, I-I think you have me mistaken for someone else?” He gritted his teeth, shivering from the cold, not looking at either of the people who sat crouched next to him. He was pretty _sure_ he didn’t have any _primos_ … His father had been an only child, and while his mother _did_ have a brother, she cut ties with him back when Héctor was very small, and he couldn’t even remember the man’s face.

“Nope! Never met you in my life.”

Okay, that made even _less_ sense. “I don’t understand,” he said, finally glancing at either side of him. They were both slightly younger than Lorenzo, closer to his age, but their bones looked even worse than his did. Furthermore, they were not familiar in the slightest. “I-I don’t have any cousins.”

The man to his right cracked a grin. “You do now!”

“ _¡¿Qué?!_ No!” Shaking his head, he rose to his feet, trying to wipe some of the mud off of his pants. “No, the only family I have left is on the other side, across the bridge. I’m waiting for them. _They’re_ my family. Okay?”

Smiles fading, the men glanced around awkwardly. On some of the other boardwalks weaving through this bizarre place, it looked like a few others were either giving him sympathetic looks or turning away.

Héctor gripped his right wrist, rubbing it for a moment before forcing himself to stop, and stared down at the boardwalk below him as he walked away from the men. “I’m sorry. I have somewhere… somewhere else I need to be.” As he walked back toward his bundle of possessions (which he was grateful he’d set aside), he noticed that Pizzicato was not following.

Fine—she could stay here and fool around by herself for a while, then. She’d have to follow him again sooner or later.

When he stooped down to pick up the bundle, he heard Lorenzo give a soft sigh. “Look, man, it’s getting late, and it’ll be dark soon,” the man said, taking a step closer. “Someone here may have a place you can spend the night—”

“ _No gracias_ ,” he said, a little too firmly. “I’m going…” _…home?_ What home? Where could he even go?

Héctor shut his eyes. _Anywhere but_ here.

“I-I’m leaving,” he said, ignoring the crack in his voice as he slung the sack over his shoulder.

“You don’t want to be in the lower parts when it gets dark,” the man warned, but Héctor ignored him, heading back through the gates.

Before he left, however, he cast one last glance back at Pizzicato. She stayed within the town, staring back at him pleadingly.

_Peep…! PEEP!_

He knew what he’d told her before—he’d promised to listen, and she _had_ been right before, but… she _couldn’t_ be right now. Not this time. “I have to be where they’ll find me, Pizzicato,” he called out, and turned away before she could make another sound. With that, he marched back up the creaking steps, leaving the land of the forgotten and returning to the Land of the Dead.

 

* * *

 

It _did_ get dark soon.

The sun had been setting as Héctor climbed the stairs, and it was twilight by the time he reached the top. The town, as run-down as it was, was well-lit, a warm beacon even in this chilly night (doubly so with his suit still soaking wet). But given what it _meant_ to live there… Héctor had no desire to return.

Even so, he did wonder if Pizzicato would come back. She hadn’t followed him up the stairs, to his surprise, and looking back, he didn’t see the glow of her markings or eyes approaching him. But… she wouldn’t just leave him, would she? She was _his alebrije_.

No. She would come back. He’d give her a few hours, maybe she’d hunt around for some food for a while, and then she’d come looking for him again.

Shaking his head, he moved away from the stone structure and into the lower streets. While the dilapidated buildings had seemed unnerving before, they were doubly so now at night, and he recalled with a shudder that Pizzicato had led him in a strange path through this place that he could not remember. It couldn’t be _that_ hard, though, could it? He just… had to keep going upward.

Unfortunately this part of the Land of the Dead had no street lights to speak of—there were old posts standing here and there, but many were broken and the few lanterns that still hung from them had no lit candle within. So he found himself wandering, clenching his bundle tightly in one hand while keeping his other wrapped around his chest as he shivered.

He should probably change into his other set of clothes, he realized, or at least use the blanket to dry off, but the thought of stopping here made him uneasy. Not to mention, where could he even _change_? He had no home, now, and it wasn’t like there were bathrooms anywhere. Maybe he could go back to Ceci’s apartment and ask if he could spend the night there, but he’d probably worn her thin on favors at this point.

Unfortunately this part of the Land of the Dead seemed difficult to navigate—some buildings were destroyed, their broken walls and ceilings blocking the street, forcing him to take strange side roads, and the darkness did not make them easy to navigate. On top of that, he realized with a jolt of terror that he was not alone—he could hear other beings lurking in the shadows, and he had no idea if they were skeleton or _alebrije_. Either way, he had no desire to meet them.

It was getting colder as the night wore on, and the wind picked up, cutting through his soaked clothing and into his bones. He didn’t want to stop here—he truly didn’t—but he couldn’t take much more of the chill around him. Perhaps he could find shelter somewhere, just until the wind died down…?

Héctor approached one of the old buildings, listening for the sound of anything nearby. Hearing nothing over the wind, he crept into the building, wincing to see that part of the roof had caved in some time ago. Hopefully the rest wouldn’t do the same. He couldn’t see anything else dangerous, however, because he couldn’t _see_ anything else, but that… was okay, right? It wasn’t like he was going to stay here.

He crept to the corner of the room and sat there, curled around his bundled-up blanket, and listened to the sound of the wind outside. He’d just wait here until the wind stopped. He wasn’t going to stay here—just wait until the wind stopped… until…

Something shifted beneath his arms, and he blinked, finding himself resting his head against his bundle. …Had he fallen asleep? How long had he—

The bundle shifted again, and he sat upright. Something stumbled backward, and he scrambled to his feet, clutching his bundle of possessions tightly to his rib cage. “Who’s there?!”

“Could ask you the same question,” the figure growled, the voice feminine. He could only make out a vague silhouette of her a few feet in front of him. “This is _our_ place.”

“Oh, _lo siento_ , d-didn’t see your name on it,” he shot back, immediately realizing it was a dumb retort. And then realizing something else. “W-wait, _our_ —?”

The floor creaked off to his side, and he gasped, taking a step back and bumping into the wall. Remembering he’d chosen to wait in a _corner_ like an idiot, he let loose a few curses in his mind. “ _Mira_ ,” he said, wishing he could see the other person. “I don’t want trouble. I just had to stop somewhere, you know? W-wait for the wind to die down—I’ll leave right now, I’m sorry.”

“We’re in no hurry to rush you out,” the other person said, the voice deeper but also feminine. It made the situation no less worrisome. “Since you’re here, we might as well take a look at what’s in that bag you’re carrying.”

“Nothing!” he cried, clutching it tighter. “I don’t have any money. I promise!”

“That’s fine,” said the first woman. “Let’s see what money you don’t have, then.”

Immediately her partner lunged at him, and he dodged forward, nearly running straight into the first woman. When she made a grab for him, he swung the sack at her, striking her in the head. He heard a faint cracking noise and flinched, hoping it had come from her and not anything he kept within the sack.

Héctor scrambled out of the building and out into the street, running blindly to get away. The two women were right behind him, but he was pretty sure his legs were longer—if he could keep up this pace, he _should_ be able to get away easily.

“GABRIEL! _¡AYUDA!_ ” one of them cried

“Huh? _EY_!” A man that was somehow taller than Héctor ducked out of a nearby building and shot Héctor a glare before charging at him. “Wha’d you do to my girls?!”

Or not so easily.

With a startled cry he bolted off down the nearest alley, only to screech to a halt when he saw that one building’s wall had collapsed, blocking his path. Turning around, he found the three souls advancing on him, and quickly turned back, moving his sack over to one hand and climbing the debris. He managed to make it over the crumbling pile of stone and wood, sighing in relief when his feet touched the ground.

Only to yelp when something grabbed his collar, hoisting him up and backward. “Got ‘im!”

Héctor struggled in the man’s grasp, kicking out with his feet while keeping a firm grasp on his possessions. The two women stood to either side of him glaring. “Let me go—!”

“Not until I teach you a lesson, _amigo_.”

“ _Not if I can first_!” came a rough voice behind them. Before Héctor realized what was going on, something smacked into the back of his assailant’s head, sending it flying forward.

The man dropped him, and the two women looked like they were going to charge at the new person, when—

_SCREECH!_

Héctor grit his teeth, instinctively moving to cover his ears before realizing what that noise was. “Pizzicato…?!”

Sure enough, the _alebrije_ zipped forward, flying erratically around the two women, who struggled to hit their target, while the man fumbled around for his head. As Héctor wondered where she’d come from, he felt something grab his bandanna and yank him backward.

“ _¡Vámonos_ , _chamaco!_ ” an older man hissed at him, and let go so he could get back to his feet. The man was short, squat, and carried a cane, which he was now using to hurry back out to the street.

Héctor looked back at Pizzicato, who was still busy distracting the women. Remembering what had happened the last time he’d left her to distract someone, he hefted up his sack and swung it at one of the skeletons, catching her off-guard and knocking her into the other woman. He then made a run for it, relieved to hear the familiar _buzz-flap_ of Pizzicato’s wings just behind him.

As he caught up with the man who’d rescued him, the man turned to give him a scowl. “Great idea, kid,” he snarled. “Run away from the shanties and fool around in the lower parts of the tower instead! You got some brains, there.”

Héctor frowned, but followed him anyway and looked over his shoulder with a wince. “They won’t follow us?”

“Not if we go toward Shantytown,” the old man replied. “They know everyone else’ll put up a fight down there.”

“…Why?”

“Because we don’t take well to _criminals_ ,” he said, and gave Héctor a hard look.

Héctor could only glance away, his gaze finding Pizzicato, who also gave him a critical look. “… _Lo siento_.”

The man was slowing down, now, as they neared the stone steps that loomed over the shanties. “You’re lucky you have a persistent _alebrije_ like that. Blasted thing wouldn’t stop knockin’ stuff off my shelves until I followed it.”

_Peep!_

Finally they came to a stop, the old man leaning on his cane as he stared down at the creaking wooden steps. “Well, that’s as far as I’ll take you.”

“What?” Héctor blinked. “I thought… aren’t you going back to the shanties?”

The man eyed him, leaning on his cane. “Thought you weren’t in much of a hurry to join us down here.”

“I’m… not, but…” Héctor wrapped his free arm around his chest, shivering. Pizzicato, meanwhile, fluttered onto his shoulder. “I just… uh. Thought you’d try to convince me I needed to come with you.”

“If you’re not gonna listen to your _alebrije_ , you’re not gonna listen to me,” the man snorted.

Héctor winced. “I _do_ listen to my _alebrije_ , though! Uh… most of the time.”

“Not this time.”

“No.” Absently he reached up to stroke Pizzicato’s shell. “I… don’t think she’s right this time, trying to bring me down there. But maybe I should have… stayed there just for the night, until it’s safer.”

“ _Pshaw_. Clearly you should’a just stayed up here and let yourself get mugged if you’re still that much of an idiot.”

Shooting a glare, Héctor took a step closer. “Listen, I’m not _forgotten_. My _familia_ still remembers me. They’re gonna be looking for me here someday.”

“And that’s why you cross every year, right? Why they shower you with gifts every _Dia de Muertos_?”

He faltered, looking away. “W-well— _no_ , but—”

The man tapped his cane against the stone floor, but said nothing. Héctor stayed quiet as well, staring down at the warm glow of the town below them. Pizzicato clambered up onto the side of his face, licking his cheek.

“…They’ll come looking for me,” he finally muttered, his voice choked.

“So what’s stoppin’ you from headin’ straight back up the towers and making a place where they can find you?”

Hesitantly, Héctor stared down at his hands—even in the dim starlight, he could see just how dull and yellowed they’d become. Not as bad as some skeletons he’d seen—not as bad as his parents had looked toward the end—but noticeable enough to anyone around him. Glancing over at the old man to his side, he found the other skeleton’s bones to be much in the same condition. Not terrible-looking, but clearly dulled.

“They’re not gonna get better,” the old man said.

“Are they….” he said, his voice a pained croak, “ _really_ forgetting me?”

Pizzicato licked his cheek again, and the man heaved a heavy sigh.

“Can’t answer that. But I can tell you this.” He looked Héctor in the eye, then waved his cane vaguely upward. “You’re not gonna find much up _there_ for you at this point. So you can either hole yourself up in some miserable corner of the underworld… join _them_ ”—he cast a side-glance at the ruined buildings nearby—”assuming they don’t tear you limb from limb… or make a home for yourself in Shantytown.”

Héctor gave a weak laugh. “Could I, uh… take a fourth option?”

“Yeah, you can stand here like an indecisive _idiota_ until you dust!” the old man growled before stamping his way down the stairs.

Exchanging a glance with Pizzicato, Héctor hefted his sack over his shoulder and set out to follow the man. Said man glanced over his shoulder at him, but said nothing, while Héctor hurried to keep up. “So, um,” he began, keeping his arm wrapped around his chest. “What do they call you? _Primo? Tío—_ ”

“Chicharrón.”

…That was _not_ a name. “Um—”

“No _primo_ , no _tío_. _Just_ Chicharrón.”

“Right. Well… I’m Héctor.” When the man didn’t answer, he eased Pizzicato off of his face and held her out. “And my _alebrije_ is Pizzicato.”

Chicharrón eyed the _alebrije_ and cocked a brow-bone. “A lot nicer of a name than I was callin’ her earlier.”

It took Héctor a moment to piece together what he meant, and he snorted, stroking the bat’s shell with his thumb. “She might’ve deserved that.”

_Peep…!_

It was late by the time they reached the stone gates. Fewer fires gleamed in the night, and fewer skeletons were out walking around the docks. Aside from a few stragglers, Héctor almost wanted to say the place looked like a ghost town, but he bit back the comment. “So… where do you stay?” he asked instead.

Reaching out with his cane, Chicharrón indicated a run-down bungalow some distance off that was covered in signs like “ _NO ENTRAR_ ” and “ _prohibido el paso_ ” in large letters. Héctor had to laugh, only to stop when the look the old man gave him told him it wasn’t a joke. So… maybe asking if he could spend the night at his place wouldn’t be a great idea.

However, Chicharrón turned to one of the few skeletons that was still outside, dozing by a fire. “Estefan,” he said, and the man startled awake, blinking. “Take care of the new guy.”

“Uh…? _Oh_!” Jumping to his feet, the younger man gave a tired smile. “ _¡Hola, primo!_ You can stay here for the night.”

Héctor was startled at the man’s generosity and almost wasn’t sure how to respond until Chicharrón nudged him forward. “Oh—um, _¿hola?_ ” He looked back at Chicharrón, but the old man was already stomping back to his house. “Uh… _buenas noches,_ Chicharrón!” he called. “I’ll… see you around?”

“I’m not in any hurry to see your stupid face around, but sure.”

Estefan, as it turned out, enjoyed having guests, and ushered Héctor into his shack. Though the man was the house’s only permanent occupant, he hurriedly set out a spare cot, upon which Héctor set down his possessions.

Unwrapping his blanket (he was eager to change into some dry clothing), he looked over the few items it had been wrapped around, and winced when he realized that Pizzicato’s plate had cracked in three pieces. The bat swooped down onto the cot, surveying the broken plate, and Héctor sighed. “ _Lo siento_.”

Estefan glanced over his shoulder and hummed. “I think Tía Yolanda has some glue that could fix that,” he said with a nod, and stepped outside. “ _Ahora, vámonos_ , let’s get you warmed up.”

Several minutes later, Héctor had changed into his other outfit and had his mother’s blanket wrapped around him as he sat before the fire. Pizzicato hung from the corner of the roof while Estefan sat nearby, talking animatedly about the current going-ons in the town, how Lorenzo almost had his accordion fixed, how Prima Josefina was certain she’d gone a shade lighter, how some of them were sure it was going to start snowing any day now. Héctor nodded along, at first overwhelmed by the chatter, but soon finding it strangely comforting.

He quickly realized why: these were the first people who had sat down and treated him like a normal person for the first time in a long while.

_Peep_.

Looking up at Pizzicato, he saw the bat eye him before tucking her head under her wings. Right, don’t think about that right now.

“So what do you like to do?” Estefan asked, leaning forward.

“I mean…” Héctor scratched his head awkwardly. “I’m… kind-of a musician—”

“ _Kind-of_?”

“I mean, I write music— _wrote_ music… haven’t in a while. And I um… used to have a guitar.”

“No kidding? Hah, I heard Tío Eduardo was lookin’ to trade his!”

“Yeah?” Héctor sat up, a smile crossing his face. Pizzicato had turned her attention to them again as well, her ear-wings spread wide. Estefan, meanwhile, happily went on about Tio Eduardo’s never-ending quest to find the right instrument—or right hobby, apparently, since he’d tried out painting and dancing before then.

As the night wore on, Héctor found himself surprised with how… at ease he felt. He couldn’t help thinking back to when he was anxiously selling off his possessions from his apartment, or when he was sitting huddled in an abandoned building a few hours ago. He hadn’t felt this comfortable in… years, probably.

As Primo Estefan rattled on, Héctor glanced back at Pizzicato, sighing. _Well…_ he thought. _Guess you were right, Pizzicato._

_I_ do _belong here._


	6. Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, folks! This is it!! Thank you guys so much for reading!
> 
> And special thanks to Jaywings and Tomatosoupful for beta-reading this for me! You guys are the best!

Settling into Shantytown was both easier and harder than Héctor had expected.

He was quick to find a home—an old, one-room shack northwest of the front gate, at the far end of town. At first he was grateful, until he got a better look at the thing—the roof had holes in it that would need to be patched, and it had a lovely “window” that was, in actuality, a hole that had gotten knocked into the wall that was covered by a plastic curtain. Still, it was better than nothing.

Then he made the mistake of mentioning how lucky it was they had a spare house. Everyone went silent, some of them clearing their throats awkwardly, before the subject was changed. Héctor mentioned the odd behavior to Chicharrón later, and the old man clicked his nonexistent tongue.

“That was Alejandra’s house.”

“Oh.” Héctor rubbed his wrist. “Did she… move out?”

Chicharrón fixed him with a hard look, and then he realized—this was the land of the _nearly-forgotten._

“Oh… _ay, dios!_ ” He covered his face in his hands, and Pizzicato fluttered up over his head, alarmed. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?! I shouldn’t—”

“It’s all right,” the old man said, stomping his way back into his house. “It’s what we have to do.”

If he’d meant those words as a comfort, Héctor didn’t take them that way. He couldn’t shake the thought that he could move in… because someone else had disappeared. When Pizzicato landed on the side of his face, he shook his head. “They’re all on the edge of it, Pizzicato,” he murmured. “All on the verge of…”

_Peep!_ The bat’s tongue flicked against his cheekbone.

He shuddered, and shook himself bodily. “Right. I shouldn’t think about it that way.” Hearing laughter ring from another corner of the town, where a fire roared and music played, he managed a smile. “I mean… they don’t.”

In spite of the reminders of death (first and final) all around them, the town never wavered in its joy. It seemed near-relentless in that aspect, as though if they let themselves down for too long, they would never get up again. People held parties and games, shared what little they had, and constantly helped each other out. And, honestly, it worked.

For a time.

One night, as Héctor sat around with his “new” guitar (a worn-out old thing he’d gotten from Tío Eduardo) and several new friends (Primo Lorenzo, Primo Estefan, Prima Violeta, Tía Gloria, and Tío Carlos—he always made an effort to learn their names), a flicker of gold appeared among them that had nothing to do with the fire they sat around. Prima Violeta nearly tipped sideways off her stool, Lorenzo holding her up and looking at her in alarm. All at once the joy was gone. The others rushed to her side, Estefan calling out for others to come and help.

Héctor, meanwhile, found his guitar slipping out of his hands and clattering to the ground. Pizzicato was nudging and licking his cheekbone and squeaking, but she didn’t register. All he could see was the memory of his father, collapsing to the floor of the old living room, his bones shimmering gold.

A sharp pinch of pain brought him out of his trance, and he yelped, pulling Pizzicato away from his face. The bat looked pointedly from him to the woman on the ground, and whimpered. He followed her gaze.

“ _P-prima_ …?” he stammered, taking a hesitant step closer. Even though he’d only known her for a month, seeing her like _this_ was _…_

Violeta smiled weakly up at him as Lorenzo held her up and ran a hand through her hair—hair that never got a chance to turn gray. “ _Lo siento_ , cousin,” she said. “Guess I didn’t get to hear as much of your music as I’d hoped.” Her body shimmered as another attack seized her, and her smile fell, her teeth grit.

Hearing the plucking of guitar strings behind him, Héctor hastily turned around. He grabbed the guitar (Pizzicato had to quickly flutter off when it was picked up) before he lifted it up and began to strum. Though his hands threatened to tremble, he did his best to keep them steady as he played for her. He couldn’t find his voice in that moment, but the others filled in for him, a couple of them singing along while the others hummed.

Moments later, before they even had time to finish, there was nothing atop the stool but a ragged pile of clothing.

Héctor could say nothing, dragging himself away from the scene and leaning against the nearest wall that wouldn’t give way. Pizzicato hovered over him as he stared down at his hands—at the carpals and metacarpals and phalanges that remained a threatening yellow-gray.

Something seemed to lightly poke at his feet, and out of the corner of his eye he could see an orange-and-blue glow beneath him. Immediately after he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said quickly, before Lorenzo could speak. “I-I couldn’t… I had…”

“It’s okay.” His voice had a rough edge to it, but he seemed to hold himself together. “It’s… never easy. Especially the first time.”

“It wasn’t the first time,” Héctor said, and swallowed, clenching his fists. He still found himself staring down at them as he unclenched them, then clenched them again.

Lorenzo followed his gaze. “You’ve still got a while.”

“No…” He drew in a shuddering breath, and looked up, holding his hand out to Pizzicato. “I’ve got no time to waste.”

 

* * *

 

The next _Dia de Muertos_ , his plans for bridge-crossing got a tad weirder. This time they involved _slightly_ more illegal activities, such as sneaking around below the bridge platform. He’d considered doing it before, but the only thing holding him back had been not wanting to soil his reputation for potential employers. Now, however, he had nothing to lose. So long as he didn’t actually hurt anyone, he shouldn’t be in jail for too long. Jail could only be a minor setback, now, rather than something that could destroy his opportunities for a job.

Sneaking below the bridge went about as well as anyone could expect, however. While he initially made it past the guards, they easily spotted him trying to scale the wall, and he slipped and fell in a panic. Pizzicato snagged his shirt and beat her wings in a vain effort to lift him up, and he felt something slam into his back. To his surprise, however, it was not the ground, but a giant, flying snake that had swooped up beneath him. He had to laugh at Pizzicato’s joyful expression when she thought her efforts were actually doing something… right before she spotted the giant _alebrije_ holding him up, at which point her yellow eyes narrowed.

Still, they were grateful to the _alebrije_ for helping them, up until it deposited them back on solid ground, directly in front of a pair of security guards.

Spending the rest of the day in a cell wasn’t _too_ bad, all things considered. More importantly, it did nothing to deter them from further attempts. If anything, it fueled them.

Chicharrón found him a few weeks later drafting up plans for another attempt. “You just got outta jail! What’re you doing, planning _another_ harebrained attempt like that?” he cried, jabbing his cane at Héctor accusingly. It looked like the only thing preventing him from outright striking him in the head was the bat that hovered angrily nearby.

Héctor only gave him a crooked smile. “ _Pshaw_ , what’re they gonna do? Throw me in jail again?”

The old man drew in a breath, looking like he was about to respond, only to stamp his cane against the floor and growl. “Well don’t expect _me_ to help you with this… this…!” With a sound of disgust, he hobbled away.

He did, of course, help Héctor with his schemes on a number of occasions (after a lot of begging, pleading, and promising to return borrowed items). He was not alone in this, either—many of Shantytown’s residents would lend him items to help if he asked nicely enough, but sometimes they just did not have the items he needed.

One year, after digging through his Prima Alejandra’s closet (with her permission), he found that all of the clothing articles were simply too old and ragged to pass for what he needed. “ _Gracias, prima_ ,” he said with a smile, only to let out a heavy sigh when he stepped out of her bungalow. “Guess we’ll have to make a new plan, Pizzicato.”

But Pizzicato was not there. Instead she was fluttering away from him, out through Shantytown’s gates. Confused, he followed along, surprised when she led him up through the lower levels and back to the Arts District, where he used to frequent.

Ceci, it turned out, was one of a handful of people outside of Shantytown who would still begrudgingly help him whenever he asked. She had found great success, now helping to create the wardrobes for many dead celebrities (Ernesto, unfortunately, included), and finally had a studio of her own.

Of course, she wouldn’t merely help him for free—Héctor found himself running errands for her, and occasionally helping out others around the district. Not that he minded. It gave him an excuse to hang around outside of Shantytown occasionally, and more things to do other than manically drafting up plans for _Dia de Muertos_ every year. Pizzicato was good at finding him places to go to, people he could connect with. It was never anyone who could offer him a job, but folks he could talk to, or who he could do favors for in exchange for providing him with items he needed.

Even so, they didn’t spend all their time running errands in the Arts District. Héctor still enjoyed being with his Shantytown family, and still got use out of the old guitar his Tío Eduardo had traded him. Though he never busked in the upper towers anymore, he would gladly play requests for his family.

And no one there requested _that_ song, for obvious reasons.

But as much as he enjoyed being with his Shantytown family, another family weighed constantly on his mind—a family that was still on the other side of the bridge. No matter how much he came to love the Nearly Forgotten that surrounded him… every time the golden shimmers seized a _prima_ or a _tío_ , every time another soul faded to dust, every time he glimpsed his own graying bones…

He would remember that his own time was limited, and he would retreat into his shack, and go back to preparing for his next plan.

But there was another thought that occurred to him many years later, when he caught sight of a calendar in Ceci’s studio:

He wasn’t the only one whose time was limited.

 

* * *

 

Héctor paced around his tiny shack, Pizzicato fluttering over his head in dizzying circles. “What am I going to do, _amiga_?” he cried for what was probably the fourth time, and bit into one of his knuckles. “Seventy… _ay_ , she’s going to be _seventy_ this year! And… and _this_ is no place for her!”

With a groan, he threw himself back into his hammock, which immediately tipped and dumped him out backwards. He found himself with his feet still atop the hammock, his back and head on the floor, staring up at the bat _alebrije_ hovering over his head. “This is no _bed_ for her, either,” he mumbled.

_Peep_ … Pizzicato landed on his chest, careful to avoid his bad rib (one he’d broken a few years back, that had never healed). Automatically he reached up to stroke her smooth shell, closing his eyes as he mulled over the dilemma.

It was true that he didn’t know _when_ Imelda would die. Even in his loneliest moments, he would never wish an early death upon her. And while it was very much possible that she could live for another few decades yet, seventy was not young. Even if he was sure she hadn’t lost a hint of her beauty.

_I wonder how she looks, now_ , he thought, wincing against the pang in his chest cavity.

“She’ll be remembered, though, when she comes… I hope,” he murmured. “Maybe she has that shoemaker job she wanted, and she could teach me. My own wife can’t deny me a job, right?” He tipped his head to give a hopeful grin to Pizzicato, who licked his nose. He laughed softly, then sighed, letting his head fall back with a _clunk_.

“I’ve got to do something, Pizzicato,” Héctor said. “I can’t just show up like _this_.” He gestured vaguely, as though to indicate his entire self. His bones were as gray as ever (though they hadn’t gotten much worse than when he’d first joined Shantytown), and his clothing was ragged and torn as could be.

The bat flicked her ear-wings this way and that, and carefully fluttered off of him, hesitating for a moment before hovering over to the door of his shack. Confused, he struggled to his feet, watching as she looked from the door to him a few times—she wanted him to follow her.

Even if there were a few times Héctor didn’t like to acknowledge it, Pizzicato rarely led him wrong. Without another word, he followed her as she led him out of his shack, out of Shantytown, and back to the upper levels of the tower.

 

* * *

 

Héctor grinned widely, in spite of the look Chicharrón gave him. “Eh? _Muy guapo_ , right?”

“You really want me to answer that?” Chicharrón asked, narrowing his eyes at the old, blush charro suit Héctor was wearing.

“Fine, _you_ don’t have to,” Héctor went on, still grinning as he put his hands on his hips. “ _I_ know someone who will think so.”

The old man glanced somewhere over Héctor’s shoulder. “ _She_ doesn’t count. She doesn’t even wear clothes.”

“Uh—wait what…?!” Héctor took a step back, blinking and scratching his head. “Wait, no, that’s… she doesn’t… uh…?” Following Chicharrón’s gaze, however, he found the man was looking at Pizzicato, who was hovering around above his shoulder. Dropping his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is _not_ what I meant.”

_Peep!_

“Where did you even _get_ that thing?”

Rubbing his right wrist, Héctor grinned sheepishly. “Oh, you know… I just… let’s just say I owe someone… a few _dozen_ favors.” Of course, a few dozen was rounding it _down_ , but he didn’t care.

Chicharrón cocked a brow-bone. “Wha’d’you need a fancy thing like _that_ for?”

Pizzicato finally perched on the side of his face, careful to not let her claws snag his new suit. He reached a hand up to stroke her shell for a moment before answering. “I’ve… been counting the years,” he admitted, “and… Imelda’s in her seventies, now.”

“ _Sí._ And?

Héctor sighed. “If… if I can make this last a few years…” He paused again, then shook himself, dislodging the _alebrije_ from his face. She fluttered back into the air, watching him carefully. “I-I want something nice to wear. For her. When she gets here.”

“How do you know it won’t wear out before she gets here?”

“Ah, I won’t be wearing it all the time,” he said, brushing a spot of dirt off of the side. “In fact, I won’t wear it at all—not until _she_ gets here. I’ll keep it nice.”

Even then, Chicharrón still looked unimpressed. “Why _pink_ , anyway?”

Shrugging, Héctor shook his head. “Eh, pink, blush, _ay_ … I can’t remember if it was _exactly_ this color, but I think it’s close enough to the one I wore, when—” He stopped short, swallowing. “When I left.”

“So what?”

“Maybe if I wear it, play her song…” Finally he was smiling again, as he thought it over, the chords to Poco Loco already playing in his mind. “It’ll be like I haven’t been gone at all.”

To his surprise, Chicharrón rolled his eyes. “ _Pshaw_. After what, _fifty_ years?” He frowned, giving Héctor a serious look that made him feel small. “You really think _that’s_ what she’ll be thinking when you show up after she arrives?”

Well, when he put it that way… it _did_ feel sort of dumb. Even so, he looked back at Pizzicato, who lighted on his shoulder and nuzzled his jaw. “It’s… worth a shot?”

Chicharrón stared at him for a moment longer, and sighed, leaning against his cane and staring down at it. “You’re really hopin’ this’ll work, huh?”

“Of course!” Héctor managed a smile, even as darker thoughts clawed in the back of his mind. “I mean, if this doesn’t work, what will?”

For another moment the old man was quiet, rubbing his thumbs against the cane, before eying Héctor again with a frown. “Well unless you’re expecting your wife to drop dead of a heart attack in the next few minutes, get that dumb thing _off_ of you.”

_And get out of my house_ , was the additional implication, further clarified when the man furrowed his brow.

“Uh, right! _Adios_ , Cheech!” With that, Héctor scrambled out of the bungalow, and proceeded to creep carefully through the town, mindful of rotten planks and any other hazards that might potentially ruin the suit.

“He’s being too pessimistic,” he grumbled at one point, as Pizzicato flew alongside him. “I think it’ll be fine, don’t you?”

When the bat gave him a cocked head and what looked like a concerned look in return, he sighed, his voice softening. “They’re all I can think about, Pizzicato,” he said. “My Imelda and my Coco… They probably have an even bigger family now, but… they probably still miss me, don’t you think?”

They were nearing his shack now, and Pizzicato responded by swooping into it. Moments later, he could hear the faint sound of guitar strings being plucked, and laughed. “Okay, okay. Let me get out of this suit first, and we’ll play some music, eh?”

And so they did, Héctor playing Poco Loco as Pizzicato weaved around, filling their little shack with bursts and ribbons of color. As he played, he looked up into the colors, imagining Imelda and Coco sitting beside him. Though with a pain in his heart he knew they were much older now, he still saw them the way they looked when he left, as best as he could remember them—Imelda being twenty-two years old, and Coco being four. If he closed his eyes, he could see— _feel_ Imelda leaning against him, enjoying the sound of his music, while Coco stood up and danced around beneath the streams of color, trying to jump up to grab them.

_Papá! Papá! Come dance with me!_

Standing up, he opened his eyes, and the music faltered as the image melted away. So too, then, did the colorful flourishes that had, moments ago, filled the air.

“…Oh. Right.” Slowly Héctor sank back down onto the edge of his hammock. Pizzicato was immediately at the side of his face, licking his cheek, but he brushed her off. “No, no, it’s all right, _amiga_ ,” he said, plucking at the strings of his guitar once more. They came out haltingly at first, but soon he was back into his rhythm, this time playing a slower song he’d written—A Feeling—instead. “They aren’t here yet, but… they will be, someday.”

Someday, indeed, but that someday could be this year, next year, or ten years off. But when that day finally came… he would be ready for it.

 

* * *

 

It was not, however, that year. _Dia de Muertos_ passed, and he spent the night in a jail cell for trying to sneak past the guards again.

Nor was in the next year, when after the holiday he spent an entire week in a cell for “accidentally” breaking one of the new scanners.

Nor was it even the year after that, when he’d actually managed to avoid being jailed (at the cost of running away, badly clipping a fence, and losing a floating rib).

But the year after that…

Héctor had had a particularly rough day the day prior, having been chased out of a shop by an angry shopkeeper (he’d been accused of harassing a woman—which wasn’t the case, he had only been asking for _directions_ ), gotten the package stolen that he had been trying to deliver for Ceci, and gotten chewed out by the seamstress herself (for a very good reason), who told him she was not going to let him do any more deliveries for her in the future. Now he was lying in his hammock, though it was already midday. Pizzicato had tried to get him up without much success, and now hung from the ropes on the opposite end, waiting patiently, while Héctor considered staying there for the rest of the day.

And then he felt it.

It was not near as intense as the first time he’d felt it a few decades prior, but it was unmistakable as he felt a sudden spike of anxiety that quickly faded, replaced with a harsh, physical pain where his heart used to be. As quickly as it had come, however, the pain disappeared, only leaving him with the vague sensation that something had changed.

Something had happened.

Héctor sat upright, his hands clutching his chest, as Pizzicato leaped off her perch with an energetic _buzz-flap_. He looked up at her, his smile wobbling, unsure if this was an appropriate time for joy, given what the feeling he’d just experienced signified.

Ultimately, the joy won out over any uncertainty, and Héctor leaped out of his hammock with the loudest _grito_ he’d belted out in decades. He could hear the faint voices of startled Shantytowners outside, but he didn’t care, bolting out of his shack as fast as his legs would carry him.

_Peep! PEEP!_

Wait, no. Not yet! Laughing and ignoring the bewildered stares of his _primos_ and _tías_ and others, he skidded to a halt and rushed back into his shack, scrambling to find the charro suit he’d kept preserved over the years, that he’d managed to avoid getting wrecked in the terrible flood two years ago. Frantically he put it on, nearly wearing the pants backwards at first, before running out of the house once again.

_PEEP!_

Skidding to another stop, he wondered what he’d forgotten _this_ time, only to have his question answered by the plucking of strings. Right! Shaking his head, he bolted back into the house, tripped through the doorway, and crashed to the ground in a cascade of bones. Yet the whole time he found himself laughing, too giddy to care as he pulled himself back together, straightened his suit, slipped his guitar over his shoulders, and ran.

“Cousin Héctor, where are you going?” “What’s the rush, _primo_?” “Wait, is it—?!”

“ _It’s my wife!_ ” he shouted, loud enough for anyone in the town to hear him as he ran. “I’m going to see my _wife_!”

_PEEP!_

And Pizzicato was right behind him, beating her wings frantically to keep up. It was a long, long distance from the far corner of Shantytown up to the higher parts of the towers and to the Department of Family Reunions, but Héctor felt like he may have had wings just like the bat that flew behind him, feeling lighter even than the tiny _alebrije_ he could hold in one hand, because after years and years, decades and decades, he was finally going to see _her_ again.

Imelda had finally arrived.

 

* * *

 

Héctor’s entire body felt heavier than the whole of the Land of the Dead, with all its towers and skyscrapers sitting upon the endless sea of oblivion.

_Señor, please step away._

He could barely will one foot to move in front of the other. Occasional nudges from Pizzicato reminded him how to walk. Otherwise, the bat was eerily silent, the beating of her wings the only thing to remind him that she even still existed.

_Señora,_ por favor _, calm down_ —

His mind had gone near-blank, the faint echoes of moments ago still ringing through the emptiness. It had all happened so quickly, yet at the same time it felt like he’d rushed out of Shantytown a lifetime ago.

_Someone get that_ alebrije _out of here!_

He had only the vaguest memories of a massive, monstrous creature that had somehow appeared just outside the door, all fangs and feathers and claws, though it had never touched him. It hadn’t needed to.

Por favor, _put your shoe back on—_

His right arm hung limp at his side, and he made no efforts to try to move it. He could not immediately recall why he was doing this, but he was not going to question it.

_Someone—_ ugh!— _someone call security in,_ please _!_

But the thing he could still remember most clearly were those eyes—the same eyes he’d seen watching him shyly as he played his guitar in the sunny plaza of Santa Cecilia, the eyes he had stared into as he held out the ring, the same eyes that had gazed down lovingly at the beautiful girl they’d created together—were narrowed in recognition, in fury.

In _hate._

_I never,_ ever _want to see you again_.

It was a long, long walk back to Shantytown.

 

* * *

 

No one approached him when he finally returned. While he kept his gaze on the rotting boardwalk below him, he could see out of the corner of his eye that anyone who was still out and about was giving him a great deal of space. He wasn’t sure if they were doing it on their own, or because Pizzicato was doing something to keep them away, and he wasn’t sure if he appreciated it or not either way.

He wasn’t sure of much of anything right now.

Slowly, slowly he made his way back into the shack that he’d bolted out of so joyfully several hours ago. And then… he stood there, not knowing what else to do.

His hammock hung in one corner, but he had no desire to sleep. He had a single chair and a crate that served as a table, but what point was there in drafting up new songs or new plans? He had a small stash of drinks hidden beneath a pile of junk in the corner, but he wasn’t sure he had the will to fish them out right now.

_Peep_.

There was no energy to the bat’s voice as she hung from something on his back—her voice was dull and tired, and he briefly wondered if she felt as numb as he did. Well, numb except for the ache in his legs—he’d been on his feet for hours now.

With a shuddering sigh, he moved to sit on his hammock, only to pause when he felt something bulky get in the way, and he remembered he still had his guitar strapped to his back.

Héctor reached back to pull it off, only to cry out when a horrid, sharp pain shot through his right arm.

_The sound was so loud, like a beam snapping, and the attendants were immediately behind them, pulling them away from each other._

It was broken—she’d broken it, and _dios_ , it hurt worse than his broken rib. He quickly gripped it with his other hand, hissing in breaths through his gritted teeth as he waited, waited for the pain to fade, but it hurt—it _hurt_ —

His breaths came quicker, heavier, his rib cage heaving, and before he knew it he was sliding down to the floor, succumbing to tears. He couldn’t stop himself, and didn’t even make the attempt.

Moments later a soft, small presence lighted on his good shoulder, gently licking at his face. He didn’t reach up to pet her, as he usually did, nor did he try to speak.

Together they sat, Héctor weeping through a pain he hadn’t known since losing his parents, and Pizzicato trying to comfort him as best as she could.

It felt like hours before Héctor finally managed to calm down enough to think, feeling thoroughly exhausted and not much better. “Wh-why would this happen, Pizzicato…?” he managed to stammer, his voice shaky and hoarse.

The bat whined, nosing his cheekbone and licking it again.

Not that he didn’t already know, anyway—Imelda had laid it out quite plainly to him. He hadn’t come back _then_ , so why would he come back _now_? It didn’t matter that he’d tried to explain that he’d _died_ —she wouldn’t hear a word. And then when she’d noticed the guitar…

_You can leave your_ familia _, but you_ still _can’t leave without_ that _thing?! Why did I ever—_

He shuddered, reaching back with his left arm to unhook the guitar strap, letting the instrument drop to the floor behind him. Pizzicato let out a concerned whimper.

“I _tried_ , Imelda,” he whispered, curling in on himself, gingerly tucking his broken arm closer to his chest. “I tried to come home.”

For a long while he sat still, pressing his head into his knees, while Pizzicato still sat atop his shoulder. Eventually she gave a gentle _peep_ , hopping into the air and hovering over his hammock. He lifted his head to watch for a moment before easing himself upright, prepared to follow his _alebrije_ ’s guiding as usual.

And then he stopped, staring up at her.

_Guiding._

Pizzicato had been the one guiding him for all these years, the one who he’d relied on throughout most of his afterlife, the one he’d spoken to about his family every day. She knew how much he missed them. She knew how much he wanted to see them again. And yet...

“Y-you…” he said, his voice a weak croak as the thought rolled through his head. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?”

Pizzicato’s ears folded, and she moved a few inches back.

The confirmation was like a blow to his chest, which was already hurting from the crying and the heartache. His frame trembled, and he lowered his head, holding a hand to his face. “You _knew_.”

It suddenly made sense—nearly every time he’d mentioned his family to her, she would go quiet, or look away. Whenever he tried to cross the bridge, there was always a _reluctance_ to how she followed him. And even today, when he’d rushed off to see Imelda…

She knew. She knew from the beginning that his family did not want him. That his Imelda did not miss him. That this attempt would end in disaster.

All this time she’d been leading him, guiding him, all while knowing exactly where he would end up.

Before he realized what he was doing, he lunged to grab at her, and a second later found himself falling into his hammock, his bad arm pinned between his body and the rough material. “ _UGH_!” he cried, struggling back to his feet, the pain in his arm and shoulder now only serving to fuel his anger.

Pizzicato was now hovering on the opposite side of his shack, her movements panicked and erratic. He rushed at her again, snarling when she fluttered out of his reach. “How could you _do_ this to me?!” he cried, and she gave an alarmed _squeak_. “You’re supposed to _guide_ me!”

He went for another grab, but this time she darted up to the ceiling, hooking herself there and curling up. “You took me to a bridge I can’t cross, and down to these slums, and to—!” His voice cracked, and for a moment the anger left him as he covered his face, trembling as he fought the urge to sob again.

Shuffling noises from the ceiling turned to the sound of a faint _buzz-flap_ , ending in a plaintive _peep_.

And the plucking of guitar strings.

Uncovering his face, Héctor turned to see Pizzicato sitting atop his guitar, her ears folded, her eyes pleading. He looked from the little _alebrije_ to the discarded instrument, and slowly he approached it, crouching down as he stared at the guitar.

_You can leave your_ familia _, but you still can’t leave without_ that _thing?!_

_Why did I ever marry a_ musician _?_

His rib cage heaved as he reached out with his good arm, taking hold of the guitar’s neck as he stood upright. Face twisting into an ugly snarl, Héctor lifted the guitar over his shoulder and swung it at the ground, _hard_ —

—not noticing the _alebrije_ still clinging to it.

The resulting cacophony exploded around him as the guitar crashed against the ground in a shower of splintered wood and screech of clashing strings. But even above that noise was a simultaneous, deafening _SHRIEK_ , followed by a frantic flapping of leathery wings. Héctor staggered back as the tiny form that suddenly seemed too dangerous for its size flew erratically around the shack, alternatively screeching and growling. A moment later, it tore past the curtain covering the doorway, and all at once Héctor realized what he’d done.

“W-wait, wait, no! _Pizzicato_!” he cried, moving to bolt after her. Immediately he stepped on a piece of broken wood, which slid out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. “AGH! N-no! Pizzicato, come back! _I’m sorry_!” Frantically he pulled himself back together, ignoring the pain in his arm as he pushed himself upright and rushed to the door. “PIZZICATO!”

But the bat was already far, far from the shack, her dark form barely visible as it danced away through the night sky.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE: THIS WAS POSTED AT THE SAME TIME AS THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER! IF YOU'RE HERE TO READ THE UPDATE, PLEASE READ CHAPTER 6 FIRST!**
> 
>  
> 
> Aaand... here we are. Thank you all so much for reading, and again, thanks to my lovely beta-readers!
> 
> With this finished, it's time for me to go back and finish _Neither Can You_ , so get ready for the final updates on that soon!

**45 years later…**

“No! No! Stop! _NO_!”

_BARK!_

Héctor crashed backwards as the multicolored dog pounced on him, licking his face relentlessly. “Uuughh! Dumb _pelón_ dog!” he grumbled, though he had to fight against a smile at the laughter off to his side. “It’s not funny!” he cried, knowing full-well it probably looked absolutely hilarious.

The voice only laughed harder in response, and he rolled his eyes, shoving the stupid dog away. Immediately the voice’s owner was at his side, helping him upright, and he finally gave into a grin as his daughter looked up at him with her one-toothed smile.

Quite a bit different from the one-toothed smile he remembered from when she was a baby, but he was more than okay with that.

“I _remember_ this _perro_ ,” Coco said, and she put that same emphasis on the word that she did every time she said it. (She’d had memory problems late in life, he’d been told, and it only made his heart swell more that she’d held onto his memory, even through that.) “Miguel called him Dante and tried to keep him a secret. But I don’t remember him being _these_ colors…”

“Ah, well.” Héctor reached down, scratching Dante behind the ears as the dog chewed on his own arm. “He’s an _alebrije_ —a spirit guide. Miguel’s, to be exact!” He went to ruffle the stray hairs on the dog’s head, but the _alebrije_ bolted away, running in circles as he chased his own tail. “They come to people who need guidance, and… he led Miguel to me.”

“Oh? I think _someone_ needs more treats, then.”

The dog’s head shot up, and he bolted up to Coco, barking and wagging his tail.

“Oh no, no, Rosita spoils him enough,” Héctor said, shaking his head.

“I see.” Coco bent down to pet the dog, who whined before turning around to inspect something else in the courtyard. “So he’s like Pepita, then?”

“ _Sí_. I think Pepita’s a bit smarter, though.” He watched as Dante seemed to take notice of his wings before trying to bite them, snapping his mouth on thin air and running in dizzying circles with the attempt. Héctor winced. “A _bit_.”

“…She is mamá’s spirit guide,” Coco said slowly. “But I didn’t get one.”

“Not everyone gets one, _mija_ ,” he said gently. “But believe me, _those_ two are enough to handle.”

Coco turned to look up at him, her brow furrowed. “ _You_ don’t have one, papá?”

Héctor faltered, the words a sudden jab to his ribcage. “Er… n-no.” He looked away, gripping his wrist and knowing what his daughter was thinking. No one had told her the full story yet, but she knew that he and Imelda had only been back for a short while before she’d arrived—barely a month. And even then, they were not fully reconciled. Héctor occupied a small bedroom in the house, once a guest room, rather than sharing his wife’s bedroom.

A quiet scoff broke him out of his thoughts. “Dante led Miguelito to you… You should have had a spirit guide to lead you back to mamá.”

Héctor choked out a laugh to hide the tightness in his throat. “Well! Things, um…” He looked over at Dante, who was now sitting still, watching him with a tilted head and what almost appeared to be a concerned look. 

His mind provided him with a similar image of a different _alebrije_ \--one who would also give him concerned looks whenever he did things that, ultimately, never helped him. He then recalled the saddened appearance she sometimes had, her ear-wings drooping and her wings draped around his face, whenever they grieved together... and the delighted expression that would figuratively light up her face and literally light up the markings on her wings as she fluttered and swooped over his head, creating strands of color that weaved through the air in time to his music.

And he remembered the frantic, wild, _terrified_ look on her face when, after all she did for him, he ultimately chased her away.

Clearing his throat, he turned aside, and pretended to adjust his hat as he wiped under his eye sockets. “Things don’t always work out like that.”

An uncomfortable silence followed, and Dante gave a quiet whimper. But Héctor shook himself, placing a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Ah, but I have _you_ again, _mija_ , and that’s all that matters. Now c’mon, let’s see how your mamá’s doing in the workshop!”

With that, he led her toward the separate building, where the rest of the Riveras were happily continuing the business they had started in life. But as they walked, he glanced over his shoulder, looking up toward the clouds.

But just like the last four and a half decades, there was no longer a tiny form that danced through the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end[.](https://whosagoodspiritguide.tumblr.com/)


End file.
